


Lost Years Ep 02 - The Child

by Soledad



Series: The Lost Years [4]
Category: Battlestar Galactica (Classic), Star Trek (Classic)
Genre: Aspects of Deltan Culture, F/M, Unfilmed Scripts, When Classics Collide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-01
Updated: 2017-10-17
Packaged: 2019-01-07 17:54:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 66,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12237792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Soledad/pseuds/Soledad
Summary: The second regular episode of the "Lost Years" series. Follows "The Joy Machine". Features heavily Lt Ilia, the Deltan navigator. Inspired by an episode script by Jaron Sommers and Jon Povill for the never realized second series. The same script was later re-written for a similarly titled 2nd season TNG-episode. This one is very different, though.





	1. The Enterprise

**Author’s notes:** The ship classes described here are from the Star Fleet Technical Manual by Franz Joseph. The _Astral Queen_ as well as the various characters are canon. Some of them belong to the Animated Series or to the novels, though.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***   
**CHAPTER 01: THE ENTERPRISE**

The recreation deck, as the comfortable and well-equipped rejuvenation centre of the USS _Enterprise_ was officially labelled (lovingly nicknamed “rec deck” by the crew) was situated on Deck Six, together with other establishments of convenience like the central food synthesizers and the ship’s laundry It occupied most of the deck – much to the chagrin of incompetent desk jockeys who’d never been on a deep space mission and so couldn’t understand why the crew of a starship would need such an extensive recreation centre. Those who’d spent at least six standard months in deep space, however, knew that this particular establishment was perhaps the most important one for the crew’s mental health.

Cassiopeia, the hostess of the rec deck, enjoyed her work very much. Before the Cylons had destroyed Old Gemini, she’d been working as a _socialator_. This profession, related from afar to that of Japanese geisha on Earth, was highly respected in Gemonese society, and Cassiopeia had once been one of the best. She’d achieved the highest academic honours and had been entitled to wear the golden fringe on the hem and the collar of her mantle. She had also been chosen to take part in the training of young candidates. _Socialator_ officers like herself had always been a rarity, and her high status had earned her the respect and devotion of Gemonese men.

The role of _socialators_ reached back a thousand or more _yahrens_ in Gemonese society. It was executed with the blessing of the elders and secured a high social status. As a result, achieving a licence was _not_ easy. A candidate had to study the social structures and behaviour of all Twelve Worlds. She had to absolve endless courses in psychology, sociology, religious teachings and poetry. She had to go to regular meditation training and had to learn arcane healing techniques unknown to all other people. A good socialator, although not necessarily averse to becoming intimate with her client, was, in the first place, what the name of the profession indicated: a person best suited to tend and build out social contacts. That was what made them so influential in Gemonese society.

When the Cylons wiped out the Old Colonies, Cassiopeia found herself in a hostile environment where people considered her a common whore. Not only did men from other tribes (especially Capricans, despite all their Kobolian religious zeal) expected sexual favours from her, she had also very nearly got lynched, trapped on a ship full of starving people, many of whom belonged to the Otori-sect. That had frightened her badly. Never before had she been treated with such open hatred, and she realized that with Cain gone, she’d need a new protector, more than she’d ever needed before.

Starbuck had been the most obvious chance even though she’d never preferred exuberant young men. But Starbuck had rescued her from the Gemini freighter and helped her to find a safe place aboard the _Galactica_. Becoming a simple med tech had been a serious degradation for her, both socially and in the area of lifestyle, but at least it was related to her usual work, however faintly – and it kept her safe.

Seducing Starbuck and taking him away from the Commander’s spoiled, naïve little girl had been so easy it wasn’t even funny. She’d enjoyed trying her charms against other women, even against one of hopelessly inferior skills, because honestly, Athena didn’t have a snowball’s chance in Hades against a _socialator_. Not even against a simple one, and even less so against a highly trained _socialator_ officer. She’d been a young girl back then, with the delusions of becoming a warrior like her brother.

Cassiopeia knew she wouldn’t have such an easy victory against Athena _now_. Adama’s daughter had grown up in the meantime, earning a fame as a skilled and sometimes ruthless diplomat who had fought many battles against Federation representatives and won quite a few of them. Nor had she ever truly forgiven Cassiopeia for snatching Starbuck away from her, despite the unwavering politeness with which she’d endured her presence on family dinners for Apollo and Starbuck’s sake. Like all Adamans, she was very good at keeping long grudges. To tell the truth, Cassiopeia was glad to be as far away from her as the era of Warp travel made it possible.

Travelling from world to world was something that she – the daughter of a freighter captain – had always enjoyed very much. When they had finally freed themselves from their Cylon pursuers – with the help of the Federation – she’d visited the main planets of that interplanetary bound and ended up on Seyalia, marked on official star charts as 114 Delta V. The Deltans, as one could have expected, had recognized the true nature of her profession quickly, and offered her the chance to learn, to hone her skills even more.

Cassiopeia had jumped at the chance, of course. To learn more about mental healing techniques was something she’d always wanted to do, and even though her empathic abilities were fairly weak, like by most humans, her Deltan teachers had been surprised by her receptive attitude towards methods other human beings usually considered with deep suspicion.

She had been offered Deltan citizenship, which was an extremely rare thing, as everyone kept assuring her. Yet although she’d come to love that beautiful planet as if it truly had been her home, she could not quite give up the chance to get back her high social status among her own people. Actually, with her newly achieved Deltan degree, she could have aspired for an even higher status in the hierarchy of the _Labyrinth_ : that of the personal aide of the _Hecate_ , one of the twin priestesses who held the true power in Gemini’s female-dominated theocracy. That would have meant becoming the second most important person after the _Hecate_ herself… the highest rank any _socialator_ could even dream of.

However, as well as things were going on New Gemini, there were still no resources left to begin the training of a new _socialator_ generation. For the time being, all available energy was used for the gargantuan work of rebuilding their colony. Even with the generous help of the Federation – namely that of Alpha III and Delta V – this was a project that would have top priority for quite some _yahrens_ to come.

Fortunately for her, the _Quorum of Twelve_ was eager to build contacts to as many worlds of the Federation as possible. Since they could not afford a deeps space exploration programme of their own – that would be the task of future generations – they’ve made a deal with Starfleet, getting the admiralty’s nod to delegate a small group of diplomatic observers to the USS _Enterprise_ , the flagship of the Federation fleet. To the very ship that the Colonial refugees had met the first time after crossing the anomaly that had brought them into this galaxy.

Colonel Tigh, former executive officer of the _Galactica_ and recently the councillor of New Libra, had been chosen as the leader of said delegation (mostly because his wife served aboard the _Enterprise_ , and because he wasn’t needed very much on New Libra, the planet still undergoing an extended terraforming process), and Cassiopeia had been asked to join the team as the Colonel’s diplomatic attaché. She’d accepted, of course – considering whom the request (or should she say _order_?) had come from, she didn’t really have the chance to refuse – but with mixed feelings. Despite his straightforward stubbornness, Tigh was not easily fooled, and while he’d always been friendly to Cassiopeia, she couldn’t help but notice the slightly contemplative gleam in those dark eyes, whenever Tigh looked at her. As if the Colonel had some strange suspicion concerning her person; one that he couldn’t quite name himself. Not yet anyway.

Also, after some proper schooling, Boomer and Rigel, too, had been reassigned to the _Enterprise_ , to work as the pilot and the navigator of Beta shift, respectively. In theory, it would have been good to have at least _some_ familiar face aboard, and Rigel was all right in that area. She and Cassiopeia had barely had any contact during the flight of the Colonial fleet; there was no need to pretend in her presence.

Boomer, on the other hand, could never be fooled by Cassiopeia’s assumedly great love for Starbuck. Just like Apollo, Boomer was a close friend of Starbuck’s, but – unlike Apollo – he wasn’t a particularly romantic soul. _And_ he didn’t react well when his friends were hurt. After the encounter with the _Pegasus_ , Cassiopeia knew that Boomer would never trust her again.

In hindsight, it had been eminently stupid from her to turn back to Cain like a well-trained little _daggit_. She should have known, after all those _yahrens_ that they had known each other, that Cain would go his own way, regardless of the feelings of anyone else: Adama’s, Cassiopeia’s, even Sheba’s. Though if he’d ever loved someone, he certainly loved his daughter. Otherwise Sheba wouldn’t have been spoiled so rotten, always wanting what other people had, always getting what she wanted.

Well… almost. She’d certainly invested a great deal of effort into ensnaring Apollo – and might even have succeeded, if not for Prince Iblis. But after the encounter with that strange, malevolent entity, Sheba and Apollo began to slowly drift apart, and no amount of trying from Sheba’s side would knit again what had been broken between the two of them.

Just as the broken trust between Starbuck and Cassiopeia couldn’t be knitted again. After Cain, Starbuck had been willing to take her back – he had been infatuated with her very much – but things weren’t quite the same afterwards. And then came the termination of Lieutenant Ortega aboard the _Rising Star_ , and Cassiopeia had truly believed Starbuck guilty…. And made the bad decision to tell him to confess.

 _Nothing_ would be the same between them after that. Had Starbuck not got lost shortly thereafter, they would have broken up, just like Apollo and Sheba had. Apollo and his friends, together since the _Caprican Flight Academy_ , had very strong ideas about faithfulness and truth… and they could be surprisingly inflexible when it came to this particular topic.

 _One should never fall in love with a warrior_ , she thought bitterly, _not even if said love is just a convenience. They are a species unto themselves; no one has the chance to get between them._

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Aside from the presence of witnesses of her greatest defeat, this new assignment wasn’t all that bad, tough. As Admiral Nogura had explained to her, the presence of a civilian hostess on the recreation deck of a starship was still an experimental position, but one that Starfleet intended to establish on other ships as well. After all, the Fleet served research purposes as much as the defence of the Federation, and people ought to lead semi-normal lives during long missions. Besides, the Old Man (as everyone in Starfleet below the rank of an admiral called him) added, such hostesses – or hosts – would get the same payment as a quartermaster of the rank of a Chief Petty Officer.

Beyond the handsome payment, this was the first time for _yahrens_ that she could do something similar to his actual work, and Cassiopeia welcomed each new day. She collected the admiring looks as she walked across the rec deck in her long, shoulder-free, cinnamon-coloured dress from the representatives of several different humanoid races as the due tribute to her beauty and training. She had already been accepted by most, admired by many, and she was certain that she’d conquest the rest, too, and soon.

The advantage of working on a Starfleet ship – as opposed to working as a _socialator_ in any colonial facility – was that Starfleet had strict regulations concerning sexual harassment. Many of those had been added in the recent years as a result of a lot of filed complaints, mostly against human captains. Whether justified or not, Starfleet’s Legal Division had decided to take pre-emptive measures, which made service aboard a starship smoother and more efficient.

Cassiopeia checked the rec deck’s news board. According to the board computer, it was 18:00 hours, Earth standard time, and they had still four days’ worth of travel before them. This time their destination was a far-away one indeed. Time for the next stroll across her small realm, she decided. She liked to keep her eye on everything.

She left her small office, entering the central room of the rec deck – a spacious room, flanked by gyms on one side and by gaming chambers on the other one. The comfortable, airy central room served as mess hall and officer’s club… or a somewhat unusual mix of the two. People could eat here (unless they preferred to do so in their quarters), could talk, organize small concerts (a surprising number of them could play one or more instruments) or play board games, both electronic ones or the more traditional kind. There was also the possibility to watch holovids or to do some personal studying in one of the private reading rooms.

In a small niche on the gallery, there was an old-fashioned 3D chess set; no one but Captain Kirk seemed to touch it, ever, and should a newbie as much as approach it, some old crewmember always appeared and gently but firmly advised them _not_ to do so. At first, Cassiopeia had been surprised about that, but Commander Uhura later explained her that the captain and Mr. Spock had exclusively used this particular set, and the crew respected Kirk’s nostalgic feelings. After all, with Mr. Spock back on Vulcan, he didn’t have much else left from his best friend.

The mess hall was practically empty on this afternoon. Mr Kyle, the lanky, bristle-haired transporter chief was brooding over a particularly complicated game of _Questor_ at one of the tables – alone. Cassiopeia didn’t want to disturb him – _Questor_ demanded nearly the same level of concentration from a player than three-dimensional chess – so she only nodded a brief greeting and continued her round.

A little further away, in one of the reading rooms, she discovered T’Pel, the Vulcan sociologist. Being a civilian, T’Pel was wearing a short, wide-cut tunic and long, skin-tight trousers as it had been considered fashionable on Vulcan for the last two or three decades. Vulcans did not tend to abrupt fashion changes. Her jet-black hair was tightly braided and twisted into a coronet on the top of her head, bringing her long, graceful neck to full effect. Only a single lock fell over each elegantly pointed ear freely down to her bosom. High cheekbones, almond-shaped, dark eyes and arched eyebrows emphasized the exotic flair of her dark, nut-brown face. Very few Vulcan clans had dark skin among their specific traits, and despite all her Vulcan coldness, T’Pel was a very attractive woman, dreamed of by the one or other inexperienced young crewman. Unfortunately for them, she had also been bound since the age of seven, so all the mooning and dreaming was done in vain.

Cassiopeia considered Lieutenant Xon, who was sitting with T’Pel in companionable silence over a cup of hot _seja_ , Vulcan herbal tea, another interesting subject for her behavioural observations. The young Vulcan male was new in the close-knit command staff of the _Enterprise_ , and as such, his fellow officers kept comparing him with the steadily growing legend known as Mr. Spock. The fact that he’d been assigned as the new leader of the science section, where he had to control and direct the work of people twice his age and ten times his experience, would have been burden enough, even without the ghost of Mr. Spock lingering in every corner. Competing with a living legend must have been sheer unbearable.

While Cassiopeia had met Mr. Spock two years earlier and didn’t question the older Vulcan’s brilliance, she found it a bit unjust that the senior officers would dislike Xon, just because he’d filled Spock’s empty place – or, at least, he tried his best to do so. Xon, for his part, seemed to accept this blatantly illogical behaviour – so typical for humans – with the customary Vulcan indifference. Cassiopeia had noticed, however, that he usually avoided his older colleagues off-duty and only socialized with the other Vulcans on board.

Commander Uhura was the only exception – but again, one couldn’t throw Commander Uhura onto the same pile with the others anyway. Cassiopeia had admired the warmth and open-mindedness of the other woman since their first encounter, and hadn’t been the least surprised to see Colonel Tigh fall for her so hard and fast. They said that Libran males rarely bound their lives to foreign women, and Tigh, too, had lived alone after the Lady Lilith’s death during the long _yahrens_ of their flight. But Uhura’s dignity, intelligence and warm-heartedness easily met the Libran standard.

 _Besides_ , thought Cassiopeia for the umpteenth time, _one would have to look very hard, even on Old Libra, to find such a stunning beauty, and men are men, everywhere._

The sudden quickening of her own heartbeat interrupted her thoughts. She could feel the blood rushing into her face irresistibly. Fortunately, the years spent on Seyalia had made her capable of recognizing the effect of Deltan pheromones. She turned around to greet the slender, exotically beautiful Jedda Adzhin-Dall, who was wearing the customary white leggings and tunic of Deltan males, with sweeping sleeves and a broad, standing collar. The virginal white of the clothes and the fine-boned, naked skull gave the young scientist’s appearance a strange, heart-wrenching purity. That was not a mere appearance: according to Deltan terms, Jedda was indeed spotlessly honourable. Cassiopeia often thought that certain members of the _Quorum of Twelve_ could learn a great deal about honour and morale from the oh-so-promiscuous Deltans. Including the ones she had to work with.

Smiling, they exchanged the delightful mental echoes of certain friendly emotions – Deltan telepathy worked differently than, say, that of Vulcans – by which Jedda fleetingly reminded the blonde socialator that he was still interested. Lieutenant Ilia, the ships lead navigator and one of Jedda’s partners, knew about it, of course, and didn’t find anything wrong with it. Cassiopeia was still indecisive, though. Even a fleeting affair with a Deltan would have put serious emotional strain on a mere human. Besides, she was more interested in long-term relationships, preferably with older men – and she didn’t like to share. Therefore she evaded any binding answer with practiced ease and continued to stroll through her personal realm.

In an isolated corner he finally discovered the first true customer of the day: the first person who might really need her. She did not know the slender, dark-skinned, broad-shouldered Hindu male, nor could she remember having seen him before, but his coverall with the large pockets, in which the handles of various small, hand-held instruments were peeking out, revealed that he belonged to Engineering. Cassiopeia approached his table with light, steps, and as he didn’t seem to acknowledge her presence, she simply took a seat without invitation.

“Can I bring you a drink?” she asked.

The man glanced up at her. His long, dark eyes were dull and exhausted. “I didn’t know there was table service in the mess hall,” he said.

“There isn’t,” Cassiopeia replied. “Not usually, that is. But sometimes I make an exception, especially for first-time customers.”

“That is very generous of you, _Memsahib_ ,” the man inclined his sleek, dark head in an almost ceremonial manner. “But the truth is that I don’t drink.”

“Not even tea?” Cassiopeia asked, and as the man didn’t answer, she kept pushing. “What is your preferred blend?”

“Darjeeling,” the Hindu replied automatically; then, with a crooked little smile, he added. “Hot and no sugar, if possible.”

“Coming up right away,” Cassiopeia rose with the grace of a cobra and glided to the food synthesizer. Fortunately, these new Nutritech units came programmed with a very wide variety of food and beverages. “Tee, Darjeeling, hot,” she ordered. “One plain, one with a pinch of cinnamon and nutmeg.”

Two tall glasses materialized in the slot. Cassiopeia carefully removed them, sniffed on them to check which one belonged to whom, and placed one of them before the man on the round, marble-looking table. Then she sat down again.

“My name is Cassiopeia,” she introduced herself. “I run this establishment here. And you’re from Engineering, aren’t you?”

“Assistant engineer Nahar Sing,” the man inclined his head again. “I work with Mr. Scott.”

“You’re not in Starfleet?” Cassiopeia asked, looking for rank insignia on his coverall and finding none. “That is… unusual.”

“I’m a civilian employee of Starfleet,” the man explained. “My religion prohibits the use of weapons.”

“Why have you joined Starfleet in the first place then?” Cassiopeia asked in surprise. “There’s always the chance that violence would be used as a last resort.”

Sing looked out of the window. Now that they weren’t in Warp transfer, the stars looked like scattered diamonds upon dark velvet; it was a pretty sight.

“I always wanted to the stars,” he said after a lengthy pause. “My family could never understand. Granted, we used to live in Calcutta… well, near __Calcutta anyway, but in an _ashram_ , following traditions as they had been kept for a thousand years or more.”

“Really?” Cassiopeia was truly curious now. "In what way?”

“My father was a Brahmin,” Singh answered, “and an incredibly conservative one at that. We used to live in a cottage with no electricity and no running water… they called it holy poverty. My parents married me off when I was barely twelve. My ‘wife’ was about four.”

“I didn’t know that child marriage was still practiced anywhere aside from Vulcan,” Cassiopeia said with a frown.

Certainly, on Old Virgon it had been a time-honoured practice to marry off young girls to established families, where they had been raised with their future spouses, until they reached legal maturity, but that was a very different thing, and besides, it had been almost completely abandoned after the destruction of the Old Colonies. She didn’t know that such things were still allowed on earth.

“It is not,” Singh said. “Save for a few small sects, like the True Believers – the one my parents belonged to.”

“How did you become an engineer in the first place?” Cassiopeia asked. “It seems to me that your family didn’t hold technology in high esteem.”

Singh shrugged. “They still had to obey the law and send me to school. There, my eyes were opened to all that the world could offer. I ran away at the age of sixteen and applied for a place at the university of Aberdeen. I never went home again.”

“And your… _wife_?” Cassiopeia asked carefully.

“She never understood me, poor thing,” Singh sighed. “I wanted to take her in when I could finally afford it, but she didn’t dare to follow me. The others looked after her; our sect doesn’t accept divorce. She must have been a very lonely and unhappy woman, I fear.”

“In past tense?” Cassiopeia already guessed what must have happened, but the man needed to talk about it.

“She died two years ago,” Singh stared into his cooling tea darkly, “but I only learned about her passing right before the launching of our mission. I’m free now. I’ve always wanted _that_. But I never wanted her death.”

“Did you have any feelings for her at all?” Cassiopeia asked quietly.

“Pity,” Singh answered in a flat voice. “I felt pity for her… nothing else. As long as she was alive, I was faithful to her, as our laws demand… but in truth, she was never really my wife.”

The _socialator_ nodded in understanding. It was a feeling she knew all too well from personal experience.

“Look,” she said, “you are not responsible for her fate. You were both victims of a tradition that had long outgrown its justification. I’ve had the chance to study Hinduism a little, and what I can understand of it tells me that such extremes are not generally required. Your parents – and hers – simply lived in the past. It’s not your fault.”

“I still feel guilty, though,” Singh said.

“That’s understandable,” Cassiopeia replied. “You have a lot of grieving to do before you can be truly free again. Grieving, not just over the fate of your wife but also over your own life… a lot has been taken from you, too. Have you thought of asking for professional help?”

“I’m not going to therapists!” Singh protested.

“Strange,” Cassiopeia said. “Members of Starfleet seem to have a definitely paranoid view on psychologists. Is it true what Dr. Boyce, formerly the chief medical officer of the _Enterprise_ is reported to have said, that people prefer to talk about their problems to their barkeeper, rather than to their doctor?”

“I wouldn’t know; as I said, I don’t drink… aside from tea,” Singh said with a forced smile.

Cassiopeia gave him a searching look. During her former career as a _socialator_ , she often met people ravaged by bitterness and self-accusations. This here seemed to be a similar case.

“Well, in that case I might be the right person for you,” she said calmly. “If you can make yourself trust me, that is.”

“Perhaps,” Singh replied after a lengthy silence. “You are the first person who’s managed to make me talk about the whole thing as it is.”

“That seems a good beginning to me,” Cassiopeia rose, as further customers entered the rec deck, demanding her attention. “I go off-duty here at 21:00. Come to my office after that – it’s right behind the bar – and we can discuss a counselling schedule.”

She nodded to the engineer and left him alone, wishing that her own problems could be solved just that easily, with a little counselling. Unfortunately, things were never quite that easy.


	2. The Astral Queen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The ship classes described here are from _The Star Fleet Technical Manual_ by Franz Joseph. The _Astral Queen_ as well as the various characters are canon. Some of them belong to the Animated Series or to the novels, though.
> 
> Kirk’s family background is book canon, if one can speak about such thing considering a TV-series. According to the Original Series novel, his father was a security officer indeed, served under Captain April and was the first human ever seeing a Romulan.
> 
> Captain Jon Daily is a character only heard through the ship-to-ship comm system in the episode “Charlie X”. In my universe, he’s played by Ron Canada.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
CHAPTER 02: THE _ASTRAL QUEEN_**

In a distance of forty-nine parsecs, the _Astral Queen_ (Naval Constructions Contract 3819), a _Kepler_ -class Starfleet personnel transport ship, was heading to Starbase 13 with normal travelling velocity. This ship class belonged to the second generation transporters: to the MK VI/A-series, which was barely different from either the original MK VI-series or the newest models of the MK VI/B-series. It had a better navigations system than the original models and somewhat weaker deflectors than the newest ones, but basically, it was still the same ship class. 

Captain Jon Daily, the commanding officer, ran his ship with the help of twenty-one officers and a hundred and ninety-eight enlisted personnel. That wasn’t much, compared with the nearly five hundred crew of a heavy cruiser, but enough to operate the ship safely, as there was no science department aboard the _Astral Queen_. The crew practically consisted of engineers and technicians of various grades, plus a security contingent. The latter ones were all Starfleet veterans, who’d grown too old for dangerous deep space missions, but their skills and experience could serve them on more peaceful posts for decades yet to come

Aside from them, each cargo- or personnel transport unit – nicknamed little flatteringly but properly ‘containers’ and joined with the tugger via specific docking ports – had its own crew, consisting of fifteen officers and one hundred and fifty enlisted personnel. These, too, were under the orders of the ship’s captain (in theory, at least) from the moment of when the transport unit got attached to the ship, right behind the discus-section.

The _Astral Queen_ had operated in every possible area of the transporting business since her commissioning. For the last fourteen years, she’d been a personnel transporter. Captain Daily liked to compare this area of work with that of the old, elegant cruise ships that had once travelled Earth’s oceans, and, truth be told, he didn’t regret having missed the great discoveries of deep space assignment – and the even greater dangers that came with them. He got to the stars in any case, and as a _starliner_ had relatively steady routes that only got changed in every five years or so, he got to know the planets and starbases that his ship regularly visited much better. 

Granted, he’d never achieved fame like that of his friend and former Academy classmate, Jim Kirk – his career had begun aboard the _Astral Queen_ and would most likely end there. But he made a lot of friends among interesting peoples, and he was welcomed with open arms everywhere on his regular route, as if he’d come home.

Not to mention the passengers. On each trip, there were a few famous (or otherwise interesting) people whom he’d never have had the chance to meet anywhere else. The _Astral Queen_ had already ferried diplomatic delegations, heads of various states, famous theatre companies, brilliant scientists on their way to receive the Nobel and Zee-Magnees prizes, relief crews for remote starbases or entire colonies… it would have been hard to list them all. And all those people were Captain Daily’s personal guests. The commanding officers of the _starliners_ , usually wearing the rank of a lieutenant commander, were only responsible for the administrative tasks.

During the decade and the half spent aboard the _Astral Queen_ , Jon Daily had learned to handle the _starliner_ commanders (who were considered Second Officers of the ship at any given time) with proper respect, though, even if most of them tended to a hopelessly bureaucratic way of thinking. The crew of the cargo- or personnel ‘containers’ was considered a caste unto itself within Starfleet: they were closer to civilian space faring than to the Fleet. In spite of this, they had good connections and great influence, and any inconsiderate transport ship captain that made an enemy of them could forget good assignments for a _very_ long time.

Jon Daily rarely had any problems in that area. This was partly due to the fact that he’d inherited a well-balanced, easy-going nature from his Centaurian mother… _and_ that he’d grown up on the Daran V-colony. Originally a Terran settlement, the colony had a numerous Centaurian, Deltan and Tellarite population as well, so that people had learned the high art of tolerance and accommodation to other races from their early childhood.

Captain Daily was also lucky that for the last three standard years the _Astral Queen_ had been permanently assigned to _Starliner_ NCC-4003. Or the other way round; this was really a matter of perspective… and the subject of endless, friendly banter between the two commanding officers. _Starliner_ NCC-4003 was under the command of Lieutenant Commander Cavit, a calm and unshakable veteran, who’d already spent thirty-six years in the transport business and didn’t intend to retire for another two decades or so. Daily hoped that he’d be as good as his word; during the years they’d served together, they had also developed a mutual respect and friendship.

The captain glanced at the helm console over the shoulder of the Catullan helmsman, whose long, purple-white hair was bound into a bun on the nape of his neck, so that it wouldn’t bother him during work. The chronometer on the instrument board showed 17:00 board standard time, so Captain Daily rose from his command chair and stretched his back a little.

“Time for me to show some presence on the rec deck and make nice with the passengers,” he said. “Mr. Thelin, the bridge is yours.”

The tall, deceivingly fragile First Officer tilted his head to the side with the typical, bird-like Andorian gesture to signal his understanding.

“Aye-aye, Captain,” he replied and took the captain’s place. Strangely enough, he seemed taller sitting than standing, as – like Andorians in general – he had a long torso but relatively short legs. As he leaned forward in the command chair, his elbows on his knees, pointed chin resting in his palm, he reminded Daily of an oversized praying mantis that, by some weird chance of nature, ended up blue instead of green.

“ _Starliner_ , Deck D,” Captain Daily said, stepping into the turbolift with a contented smile. For the umpteenth time, he realized how lucky he’d been that the _Astral Queen_ happened to have a vacancy for a lieutenant commander at the same time when Thelin got sorted out from the border guard, after another life-threatening injury… and nineteen years of border duty. Although the _starliners_ were hardly ever threatened by pirates (they preferred cargo ships that could bring them considerable profit), having such a battle-hardened veteran on board was comforting.

The turbolift fell free with him to the geometric middle of the discus-section; from there, it surged vertically to the leaning ‘neck’, where the transport ship and the _starliner_ were connected. There, following the layout of the ‘neck’, it continued in a diagonal line, up to the docking ring, where it stopped.

“Please change to the transport system of the _starliner_ ,” the impersonal, mechanical voice of the computer told him.

Daily had been angry with the computer technicians who couldn’t be bothered to do a better job with the word processor of his board computer for a long time. They could do that for the heavy cruisers just fine, so why not for the transport ships as well? He couldn’t understand either, why it seemed impossible to connect the transport system of the ship and the _starliner_ directly. Why had he to get off the one and into the other one each time. It was so damned inconvenient!

Well, it was not within his powers to do anything about the transport system. The computer voice, however… perhaps he should allow that cauliflower-eared Tiburonian comm tech to play around with it a little. Even if it meant that Sanawey wouldn’t speak to him for weeks.

Jon Daily imagined the sturdy, bear-strong yet surprisingly soft-spoken Native American navigator who wouldn’t be brought out of his calm by anything – unless someone fooled around with the board systems - and grinned at the thought how the mild-mannered progeny of the fierce Mescalero-Apaches and the young, ambitious Tiburonian would go for each other’s jugulars over the comm system. “Soulclaw” Sanawey, now well into his seventies, had begun his career as the astrotelemeter of the _Enterprise_ , under Captain Robert April’s command, so he understood a lot about basic communications. However, he had changed jobs a long time ago, and his knowledge was hopelessly outdated in these days. Not that he would ever admit that, of course.

“D-Deck,” the _starliner_ ’s computer said, and as always, Jon Daily was comforted a bit by the fact that this voice wasn’t any less monotone than that of his ship. Still, he firmly believed that the _Astral Queen_ deserved better. 

Granted, the dear old workhorse couldn’t be compared with Jim Kirk’s ship, especially since the _Enterprise_ had been completely refitted, from the warp core to the transparent ceiling of the bridge. Nonetheless, Jon Daily found his ship beautiful and was very proud of her… with good reason. After all, the _Astral Queen_ didn’t stand far behind the first-class heavy cruisers. She had a weight of 126,000 metric tons – empty! – her normal and maximal travelling velocity matched that of the _Enterprise_ , she had two high-yield phaser banks and a standard-sized discus-segment that was the same in every Starfleet ship, plus two long, graceful warp nacelles.

The only thing she lacked, compared with a heavy cruiser, was the huge secondary hull, housing the impulse engines. The impulse engines of the _Astral Queen_ were situated in the aft section of the discus, right at the diagonal ‘neck’.

Jon Daily loved his ship and firmly believed that the _Astral Queen_ deserved her name. For that reason, he always saw that the painting of the snow white _Queen_ ’s hull was renewed in time, whenever it seemed necessary, and he was glad that Lieutenant Commander Cavit shared his preferences for a spotless, shiny clean ship. If Jim Kirk’s _Enterprise_ was like a white swan in full flight, the _Astral Queen_ reminded him of the same swan, swimming peacefully on the surface of a still lake.

The two hundred metres long _starliner_ was a world unto itself. It cylindrical hull was forty metres in diameter and consisted of eleven decks – eight for passengers, three for cargo – atop of a ten-metre-high fuel tank. It had its own bridge on the F-Deck, with a sickbay and the assorted labs, and a library; impulse engines and a brig on the G-Deck, a central computer and an engineering in the H-deck. Should anything happen to the _Astral Queen_ (Daily didn’t like to think about that, but one had to consider all possibilities), the starliner could provide the safety and the comfort of the passengers for another sixteen standard years, travelling at impulse like a lifeboat towards the next best colony or Starbase.

Captain Daily suppressed the uncomfortable thought in a great hurry (contrary to common belief, 23rd century skippers were sometimes every bit as superstitious as their 19th century counterparts commanding those big luxury liners on Earth’s oceans) and, leaving the turbolift, he headed to the recreation area on the D-Deck. This forty by forty metres room served as a concert hall, a dance floor, a holotheatre – and whatever other kind of entertainment the passengers might have been interested in.

In this relatively early hour, it was largely empty, of course, but there was an interesting little group gathered in he adjoining cafeteria. And this group was the actual reason for Captain Daily to think of Jim Kirk a lot more than he would usually do.

When he’d learned that he’d transport additional crew for the _Enterprise_ to Starbase 13, he felt proud and envious at the same time. These feelings had the same roots: from the fact that Jim Kirk _always_ got the best and the brightest that Starfleet had to offer. Not battle-worn veterans (who, admittedly, were still considered the best catch in the transport industry) but young, brilliant, energetic officers on the peek of their abilities, the very best of the best of that which was available. People whom every starship captain would be glad to see aboard his (or her) ship.

Although he truly loved both his ship and his job, Jon Daily realized with melancholy that he’d never have such navigators serving under him as, for example, Lieutenant Arex. An Edosian who, with his angular head and his relatively thin and crooked neck, his three arms and three legs, looked like a grotesque orange turtle that had lost its shield. Captain Daily had repeatedly visited Edos, back when the _Astral Queen_ had still transported cargo, and so he was well aware of the fact that all Edosian mammals and reptiles (and even some birds) had six limbs. It was still a sight that needed some getting used to, though.

Lieutenant Arex made the same impression as most of his species usually did – well, the very few of them who ever interacted with strangers, which was a rare enough thing for Edosians to do. _He’s shy_ , people would say. _He’s an introvert_ , others might add. _Calm, disciplined, not someone who would push himself into the spotlight._ Jon Daily, however, was one of the handful people who knew that Arex hadn’t got his current rank by passing some exam – he got in on the field, in the firing line.

It had been one of those recurring skirmishes with the Klingons. A Bird of Prey had violated the Neutral Zone – again! – and there was just a small, _Destroyer_ -class cruiser to stand in their way. When all senior officers of the USS _Suleiman_ had been killed as a result of the beating they had got from the Klingon ship, Ensign Arex took command to save the ship… and to keep the Klingons occupied until help would arrive. A deadly cat-and-mouse game followed, with retreat, hiding, then another battle with the much bigger and heavier armed ship. As a result, the Klingons suffered so severe damage that they had to surrender their ship and were subsequently given a trial for violating the Neutral Zone.

Arex was awarded with three different medals for his stellar performance: the _Citation of Conspicuous Gallantry_ , the _Starfleet Medal of Honour_ and the _Starfleet Medal of Valour_. The Starfleet communiqué released shortly afterwards (for internal use only, as one did not want to frighten the average Federation citizen with such news) honourably mentioned his exceptional bravery and creative actions. Daily had seen said medals with his own eyes, on a festive banquet at Starfleet Headquarters, and happened to know that Arex only kept them because it was expected from him to wear them on certain very official events.

At the beginning o this particular journey, though, Lieutenant Arex had emphatically asked the captain of the _Astral Queen_ not to tell about all this anyone. He would die from embarrassment if people started to ask him about those events, he explained.

Jon Daily considered such modesty a bit overdone – almost paranoid, in fact. But he had to admit that this very modesty had enabled the Edosians to survive in the same galaxy as such aggressive races as the Klingons, the Romulans and the Kzinti. Edos wasn’t a full member of the Federation, but a close enough ally to send cadets to Starfleet Academy and other nameworthy universities. The isolated location of their homeworld provided an additional layer of protection: Edos was situated in the Triangular-cluster, on the outer rim of the spiral arm The same location made it a highly valued starting point for scientific expeditions researching the Galaxy’s outer energy barrier. Fortunately for them, this was not the area where any main galactic power would want to expand its area of interests.

Being a relatively long-living species, Edosians could afford to contemplate life in a calm and detached manner. Their entire civilization centered on their homes and families, and they had little to no interest in politics. Neutral by their very nature, their alliance with the Federation was based on sheer practicality: the Federation was the important galactic power most likely to leave them alone, and that was what mattered the most for them.

There was very little known about them, and Captain Daily, who had a strong personal interest in foreign cultures, had been wanting to learn more about their lifestyle for a long time. There were so many questions he’d have liked to ask. Questions that went beyond such everyday Edosian weirdness as laying eggs and letting the freshly hatched babies grow in a pouch on the backs of the _carriers_ : the third gender of their species. He was afraid, though, that he would never get the chance to ask those questions. Edosians were deeply private people, even more so than Vulcans.

Edosian social behaviour was very different from the human norm, and it expressed itself, among other things, in the tendency to spend one’s free time alone, in quiet contemplation. Nevertheless, Captain Daily was not surprised to find Lieutenant Arex in the cafeteria… again. Lieutenant Carolyn Palamas, the incredibly charming A&A officer of the _Enterprise_ was hard to resist. Daily had been amazed to lean that not only did the lovely young lady own two degrees in social sciences, but she also had been the celebrated star of the modern Olympic Games in the _quadriga_ category for years.

There were no scientists among the crew of the _Astral Queen_ , and so Daily wasn’t used to work with people who could have seats at the best universities. Besides, he also know from a reliable source that Lieutenant Palamas had taken part in several dangerous planetary missions, played a crucial role in their lucky outcome, and that she was a crack shot with the phaser.

Said reliable force was nobody else but Montgomery Scott, currently the chief engineer of the _Enterprise_ ; once, however – at the seem time when a young and completely green Jon Daily had begun his service – a young assistant engineer aboard the _Astral Queen_. He had been the one who’d taught Daily to love his ship like a lady, saying that if he treated the ship that way, the ship would treat him like a lady would his suitor.

Carolyn Palamas hailed from Alpha III; a world famous of its Statutes, based on Plato’s writings. And officially listed as a citizen of Alpha III was Alexander, an immigrant from Platonia, who was also heading to the _Enterprise_. The dwarf-sized Platonian didn’t wear a Starfleet uniform – after all, he was supposed to work on Jim Kirk’s ship as a civilian maintenance tech of the rec deck – but a suit after the latest fashion on Alpha III. He was as outgoing and talkative as Lieutenant Arex was quiet and introvert – and yet they seemed to get along just fine.

The fourth member of the group was M’Rooa, a distinctly feline creature with lion-like features, a flaming red mane, a long tail and large, amber eyes. She was the diplomatic representative of Caitia – the second planet of the 15 Lyncis system that was believed to had been colonized by the Kzinti a long time ago. Unlike their relatives, the Caitian race was not hostile in nature. Their reputation as one of the most cooperative and intelligent members of the Federation made them much sought after in diplomatic circles. M’Rooa herself was a highly valued and skilled diplomat, and Captain Daily hoped to talk with her about the recent events in the Iacta Tau system.

“Come, Captain, join us,” Aleek-om, a Whitiki – an Aurelian bird-man on his way back from Memory Alpha – waved at him. “Lieutenant Palamas had just told us some fascinating facts about the Ancient Greek culture that bloomed on Terra three thousand or so years ago. Did you know that a few of their philosophers had created a cosmology that was strikingly similar to modern theories?”

“Captain Daily would be hardly interested in our geeky conversations, Aleek-om,” Carolyn Palamas said with a friendly smile while Daily accepted the invitation. “I’m sure he has more pressing matters on his mind.”

“As a matter of fact, I _am_ interested in foreign cultures, whether they hail from a different planet or a different time,” Daily said. “I heard you’ve served as a junior diplomat in the recent years, Lieutenant. In the Kobol Sector, I’m told?”

“I’ve visited several of the New Colonies, yes,” Palamas replied. “It was an… interesting experience, to say the least. Their cultures and societies are so different, despite a thousand or more years of shared past, that they could have been completely different species. And there are lost of underlying tension among them: problems that have been swept under the carpet as long as the more pressing issue of the Cylon threat existed. Now, however, that the Cylons are gone…”

“…the old adversaries might turn against each other anew,” M’roaa finished for her. “Yes, I’ve got the same impression while visiting New Aquarius a few months ago. And with that new and inexperienced President of theirs, I’m not sure how long a shared governing body will be able to overcome the brooding hostility and competition under the surface. Especially now that the new colonies are scattered across four different solar systems.”

“There’s definitely a merciless power struggle going on,” Palamas said thoughtfully. “The old ruling caste seems determined to come back to full power, after thousand years of relatively democratic government.”

“Democratic?” Aleek-om asked doubtfully. “I thought they were under military law until recently.”

Palamas nodded. “They were. Which was, no doubt, the best thing that could have happened. The military commanders had a much better sense for what was needed to survive on the flight – or before that, during the so-called _Thousand Yahren War_ – than the constantly squabbling members of the _Quorum of Twelve_.”

“The new Quorum is a lot better than the old one seemed to have been,” M’roaa clarified. “But the refounding of a society after such a long period of war is never an easy thing.”

“Not to mention _twelve_ societies,” Palamas added. “If we don’t count low-numbered refugee groups like the Nomen, the Tucanans and the Delphians, that is. Or the Hasari. In any case, it won’t be an easy process. I’m looking forward to discuss the intricacies with Colonel Tigh and his staff aboard the _Enterprise_. Speaking of which, Captain, do you think we’ll be able to keep our ETA? I know you’ve risked quite the delay by waiting for us.”

“Oh, that’s not so bad,” Daily waved off her concern. “We’re not a regular civilian flight, after all. We belong to Starfleet, too. And the _Enterprise_ does have certain privileges, as we all know.”

“I understand that you studied at Starfleet Academy at the same time as Captain Kirk,” M’roaa said in that deep, purring voice of hers.

Daily nodded. “We even used to be room-mates in the second year.”

“Tell me something about him,” M’roaa asked. “It would help me to understand him better, in case we need to communicate on the diplomatic level.”

Daily laughed. “Is he such a mystery for you?”

The Caitian diplomat narrowed her amber eyes. “Sometimes, yes… and that would be a disadvantage during negotiations.”

“Very well,” Daily said agreeably; in fact, he didn’t mind to gossip a little about his old pal Kirk. “He’s always been very self-confident, you know. Perhaps because his father had already been a highly decorated Starfleet Security officer… of course, his results were excellent, too. The only problem he could never solve was the problem called Finnegan.”

Lieutenant Palamas leaned forward in her armchair with interest. “Do you mean Commander Bruce Finnegan who died a hero at the Tholian border two years ago?”

“Did you know him?” Daily asked back.

Palamas nodded. “Not personally, but he hailed from my homeworld and was highly respected back home. People were certain he had what one needed to become an admiral, eventually.”

“That’s possible,” Daily shrugged. “There’s no way to know it now… which is a shame. Well, Finnegan was one year our senior – and for some reason, he couldn’t stand Jim Kirk. He considered Jim a self-absorbed brat and used every chance to pull mean pranks on him. When Jim was made instructor of the new first-year-cadets, Finnegan laid down his task as a tactical trainer out of protest and accepted an assignment by the border patrols. That’s the way with Jim: people either love him or hate him.”

“Is that true for you, too?” Aleek-om asked.

Daily shook his head. “Our ambitions never clashed, so we could get along amiably enough. But we never developed a close friendship.”

“Did he have any friends at the Academy at all?” Aleek-om continued his inquiry.

“Yes, of course,” Daily nodded. “There was Gary Mitchell, to begin with, who’d almost managed to get him married to that blonde lab tech, what was her name again? Carol... something. I heard she’s become a respected scientist in the meantime. And then there was Ben Finney.”

“Apparently, it’s bad luck to be his friend, though,” Arex commented quietly; the fact that he got involved in the conversation at all surprised everyone a bit. “As far as I know Lieutenant Commander Mitchell died soon after Captain Kirk had received command over the _Enterprise_. And Mr. Finney, as we all know, ended up on Elba II.”

Daily hesitated for a moment, very different emotions flashing across his broad, dark, intelligent face in quick pursuit. “The truth is,” he finally said dryly, “that Jim Kirk wasn’t always… choosy about the methods that levelled his way to his intended goal. So far, he has never been called upon it – because he always provided the results the brass expected from him.”

“Do you envy him for that?” the Edosian asked, his large, bulbous reptilian eyes fixed on the human unblinkingly.

Daily shrugged. “It has often angered me that he could afford stunts other people would have been court-martialled for; and I know I’m not the only Starfleet officer who feels the same way. I don’t see the spotless hero in him the media likes to show to the outsiders, but it’s a fact that he does his job well. The rest is sheer luck; you _do_ need a great deal of luck to get your ship back from deep space relatively unharmed. But no, I do not envy him… well, save for the fact that I’d love to have some of his people on _my_ ship. Other than that, though, I’m fairly content.”

Carolyn Palamas smiled at him. “You remember me of Scotty, Captain. You love your ship every bit as he does the _Enterprise_ , don’t you?”

“That I do,” Daily agreed proudly. “She’s a good ship… a gorgeous ship. She does her job excellently, and she’s important.”

The dwarf Alexander gave him a curious look. “Don’t you wish sometimes to have command of and exploratory vessel like the _Enterprise_?” he asked. “Not even secretly?”

Daily shook his head. “Honestly? No, I don’t – not even secretly,” he replied. “Such missions can easily lead to the destruction of a ship, and for that is me my _Queen_ way too precious. The only thing that bothers me a little is the fact that simple, honest work still gets so little appreciation. People always fall for the extraordinary… although without us, simple workhorses, the great deep space expeditions couldn’t even get launched to begin with.”

“Sadly, that is very true,” Palamas nodded. “At least for humans. Try to talk more to Vulcans, Captain. They have a good eye for truly significant things.”

They all laughed. Captain Daily shook of his temporary bad mood and relaxed a little in the company of such pleasant passengers.

“Speaking of interesting missions,” he said, “Do you know any details about the recent crisis on Thimsel? I heard the _Enterprise_ was heavily involved. It had to be a pressing issue if Jim Kirk was forced to set off without a complete crew.”

“Well, I wasn’t on board yet, of course,” Palamas replied thoughtfully, “so all I have is second-hand information. However, my source is Doctor T’Pel, the Vulcan sociologist and historian who’s currently working aboard the _Enterprise_ , so I can be reasonably sure that the information is reliably, down to the minuscule details.”

The others laughed again, for Vulcan accuracy was, indeed, legendary – to the point of becoming boring. Palamas smiled, too, with that timeless, almost archaic smile only usually seen on ancient Greek or Etrusk statues. From the progeny of a Greek father and a Finnish mother, whose features and colouring she had inherited, it was quite the sight, but it also fit. The citizens of Alpha III granted the classical education of their children great importance, regardless of their future occupation.

“Is it true that there was a conspiracy of considerable format behind the Thimsel-crisis?” Daily insisted. He always did his best to stay well-informed about Federation politics; for someone who was always on his way from one world to another, it could prove crucial. “The Starfleet-communiqués were suspiciously reserved about the political aspect.”

Palamas nodded. “And rightly so. It was a truly twisted affair. As far as I can figure out what was going on behind the scenes – and I’ll have to consult Lieutenant M’Botabwe for the exact details yet – it was basically an attempt of the _Free Merchants’ Guild_ to take control of the colony. And it seems that they’ve come dangerously close to succeeding.”

“What?!” Like every transport ship captain, Jon Daily had had his fair share of run-ins with the representatives of the aggressive _Free Merchants’ Guild_. As a rule, most of the _Free Merchants_ were little better than pirates, the scum of the many different peoples of the Federation, especially in the less tightly controlled outer sectors of Federation territory. Still, they were so good at keeping up the appearance of legality that local authorities had a hard time to convict them.

“If the _Free Merchants_ had their hands in the game, the Pirates of Orion couldn’t be far, either,” he added. “It’s generally known that the _Guild_ does business with the Orions.”

“This time they’ve really tried to go the whole nine miles,” Palamas agreed. “A very wealthy Free Merchant from Rigel VI, by the name of Marouk ibn Haziz alFaisal, made Thimsel his centre of operations – and extended his power piece by piece over the entire planet. After a few years, he arranged a ‘tragic accident’ for the legally elected governor and simply took the office.”

“How is that possible?” Aleek-om asked with a frown. “Thimsel was a shared colony of several Federation worlds. There should have been safety protocols to prevent exactly such things.”

“I’m not sure, as the details are classified,” Palamas replied, “but I think he’d been the late governor’s aide or counsellor… whatever. Fact is, he made a secret deal with the ruling caste of Ardana. The Ardanans built him a city-tower amidst the ocean, with a perfect surveillance system based on the manipulation of human brainwaves. This ‘joy machine’, as they called it? Made everyone addicted in a very short time.”

“How?” the Whitiki was completely baffled.

Palamas shrugged. “I’m not a neuropsychologist,” she said. “Apparently, it had something to do with the stimulation of the human brain’s pleasure centre… and it worked not only for humans but for several other humanoid species as well. In any case, Governor Marouk had brought Troglytes from Ardana to work on the ore processing plants. The workers had been intensively conditioned on their way to Thimsel, so that they already arrived with a full-blown addiction.”

“That’s slavery!” Jon Daily was truly appalled. His own ancestors had been driven by slavers from Africa to Louisiana, many centuries earlier, to labour on the cotton fields. He felt very strongly about such things.

“Wait, it comes worse,” Palamas said. “At the same time, Marouk had brought in female Orion slaves. Not the green savages, who’re luxury items, but the ones from the regular stock. The population of Thimsel jumped from sixty thousand to half a million within five years. Agricultural projects had been stopped in preference for exclusive ore mining. The workers were mostly Troglytes, labouring up to sixteen hours a day. With the help of the _Free Merchants_ , the ore was sold to Orion, Ardana and other interested worlds. And since Thimsel’s population had a very small Terran percentage left, Marouk was already planning to declare independence.”

“With Ardana’s support, he’d have managed to pull it through,” M’roaa added in concern. “It’s time, I think that the Federation Council gave some thought such legal matters, before we’re facing another such precedence.”

“Had that Marouk character succeeded, the _Guild_ would have been able to establish a beachhead in a little-controlled sector within Federation territory, which is something they’ve been trying for quite some time,” Daily said grimly. “They’d have been hard to stop after that. But why would Ardana do business with them?”

“The political situation on Ardana is precarious at best,” Palamas explained. “Captain Kirk’s interference on behalf of the Troglytes, albeit completely justified in the moral sense, has upset the caste system on Mu Leonis II, and the entire society has been struggling for years to find a new footing. They haven’t quite succeeded yet. Troglytes go to seek work off-world in large numbers, but it’s hard to tell whether they do it voluntarily, or it’s the government that wants to have them removed from the planet.”

“Do you think that the crisis on Thimsel might lead to a political upheaval within the Federation?” Aleek-om asked.

Carolyn Palamas thought about it for a moment, then she looked at M’roaa, the only currently active diplomat among them, who shook her head.

“No, I don’t think so,” the Caitian said. “The worlds involved are simply not important enough; although I don’t doubt that heads will roll nonetheless. Ardana will be probably questioned by the Federation Council… perhaps stricter sanctions will be established in the future to protect the democratic institutions. We’ll see.”

“Will there be a way to prove the direct involvement of the Ardanan ruling caste?” Daily asked.

“Hardly,” Palamas said. “They’ve sent works to various colonies of the Kobol Sector as well, and _those_ had the request officially sent and well-documented.”

“So, that leaves us with whom?” Daily asked. “This Marouk person and his immediate cronies? Not exactly big fish, if you ask me.”

“On the contrary,” Palamas replied. “The loss of Marouk alFaisal is going to disturb the smooth operation of the _Guild_ a great deal. He might not have been one of the big bosses, but he was a key player in their game. Not to mention that Nilz Baris, the Federation undersecretary of agrarian affairs, has fallen with him, having co-operating with him for years.”

“Is it known where the trial will be held?” Lieutenant Arex asked.

“On Minerva, apparently,” Palamas answered. Jon Daily suddenly broke into a very broad grin hearing that.

“In that case, they’ll find themselves in quite a tight spot,” he said with deep satisfaction. “The district attorney of Minerva is Lieutenant Commander Areel Shaw, and she’s damn good at her job. Hell, a few years ago she nearly managed to break Jim Kirk’s neck, having him sentenced for a murder he had not committed, and that despite the infamous Kirk luck! But if Minerva is involved, then Commodore Mendez is in trouble, too.”

“Not directly,” Palamas said. “While it’s true that Mr. Baris had his official seat on Minerva, in fact he’s operated from Thimsel for quite some time lately. Commodore Mendez had no way to know what he was up to. Starfleet personnel has no jurisdiction over the Federation administrativa.”

“Perhaps,” Daily allowed. “But were Commodore Stone still the commander of Starbase 11, Baris and his allies wouldn’t have gotten away with their little scheme so easily. José Mendez is a good man but not nearly hard enough. Elijah Stone would have discovered Baris’ game early on and snipped it in the bud.”

“He’s said to be quick and a bit heavy-handed,” Palamas agreed, “but not even he is infallible.”

“You mean Jim Kirk’s court-martial?” Daily shrugged. “That was not his fault. _Everybody_ believed in Jim’s guilt… even his own defence attorney, at first.”

“You too?” Palamas asked quietly.

Daily shook his head. “Me? Nah. Jim didn’t need to kill Ben Finney in such a treacherous way. He could have had the man simply reassigned to another ship, if necessary. Besides, he’s not wired that way. Had I heard that he’d beaten Finney to bloody pulp in a brawl, I might have believed it. But killing someone in cold blood, using a computer to do so… no, that would be diagonally opposite his true nature.”

“That was what Mr. Spock said, too,” Palamas laughed; then she became a little sad. “We shall miss him.”

“Speaking of which, who’s the new First Officer and Science Officer of the _Enterprise_ , now that both positions had been vacated by Mr. Spock’s retirement?” Aleek-om asked.

“Lieutenant Willard Decker has been assigned as the new executive officer,” Palamas replied.

Daily have her an interested look. “You mean the son of the late Commodore Matt Decker? He’s aboard the _Enterprise_ now?”

“Yes, Captain Kirk has personally asked for him, it’s said. I assume out of friendship towards the lieutenant’s father.”

“Matthew Decker was a great man,” Jon Daily said. “We all admired him, both as a person and as a commanding officer. Very few staff officers possess the natural authority he had. And even in his death, he served others. Without his sacrifice, Jim Kirk couldn’t have figured out in time how the planetkiller could be destroyed. And without the _Constellation_ , they wouldn’t have had the means to do so. I’m glad Jim has taken the boy under his wings. Will is very talented; the engineering and science sections of the Academy had competed for him during his studies. I heard he’s taken part in the refitting of the _Enterprise_ as Mr. Scott’s aide. And if Scotty accepts someone who’s still green behind the ears and hadn’t even chosen Engineering as his main field, that means a lot.

Palamas nodded. “I know. Nonetheless, the young Decker is going to have a hard time to fill his father’s shoes… or to replace Mr. Spock as First Officer.”

“That’s likely,” Daily agreed. “And who’s this new Vulcan aboard, the science officer?”

“I don’t know him,” Palamas answered. “He’s said to be very young and to come from the science colony Vulcana Regar. They also say he’s absolutely brilliant, even in Vulcan terms, but inexperienced. This is his first deeps space assignment.”

“He, too, is going to have a hard time,” Daily said with a bit of compassion. “Jim had such a high opinion about Spock; he won’t get used to a new Vulcan easily. What’s Commander Spock doing right now?”

“He’s retired from Starfleet and accepted the seat of the dean at the Vulcan Science Academy,” Palamas said. “However, there are rumours that he’d be planning to retreat to the desert of Gol”

“That would be a great loss for the scientific community, as in that case there’s little chance for him to resurface again,” Daily said. “If a Vulcan decides to go to the Gol-Masters to pursue _kolinahr_ , they’re never seen again, as a rule.”

“You’re well-informed about Vulcan traditions, Captain,” Aleek-om congratulated him.

“I’m married to one,” seeing the baffled faces of his passengers, Daily added with a faint smile. “It happens, rare though it is. My wife was widowed and worked for the Trade Office in ShanaiKahr, back when the _Astral Queen_ still flew the Vulcan route. She considered a bonding the logical thing to do and made me an offer when we’ve known each other for two years. We’re recorded as citizens of Daran V, though. That gives us more personal freedom.”

While the others were still digesting this particular piece of information, the intercom buzzed.

“Bridge to Captain Daily,” came the husky voice of the Andorian First Officer through the loudspeakers.

Daily activated his wrist communicator. “Go on, Mr. Thelin.”

“Captain, we’ve attempted to establish the scheduled contact with the _Enterprise_ …”

“Your choice of words suggest that you’ve been unsuccessful,” Daily replied mildly.

“Aye, sir,” Thelin acknowledged. “But there’s more. According to our long-range sensor readings, the _Enterprise_ isn’t where she should be – if she’s followed the pre-destined route, that is.”

“Where _is_ she then?” Daily frowned.

“I can’t tell, sir,” the Andorian replied. “There are strong electromagnetic disturbances in that sector. Locating the _Enterprise_ is currently not possible.”

“Oh, please, no electromagnetic storms!” Daily knew all too well what that would mean: a lengthy, forced break in the dry-dock of Starbase 13, which could have thrown over the flight plans of the next three or four standard months. “Can you contact Starbase 13?”

“Positive, sir.”

“Good. Send Commodore Stone a detailed report and go to maximum warp. Should these disturbances move our way, I want the _Queen_ safely in dry-dock when they reach us. Please inform Commander Cavit as well. I’m on my way. Daily out.”

The captain rose and gave his passengers an apologetic look.

“I’m truly sorry, but I must return to the bridge. Things don’t look promising out there. The only comfort is that Starfleet Command had the common sense to entrust Starbase 13 to ‘Hannibal’ Stone, of all people.”


	3. The Cloud

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea if the connection between Deltan sight and inner hearing is biologically possible or not. But since they are supposed to be a species much older and much more advanced than mankind, I thought it would be a fun ability to have.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
CHAPTER 03: THE CLOUD**

**Captain's Log, Stardate:  
James T. Kirk recording.**

**After having solved the Thimsel-crisis to the general satisfaction of the respective governments of Earth, Alpha Centauri VII, Deneb IV and Tellar, the _Enterprise_ is on her way to Starbase 13, where we are going to take aboard the last group of crewmembers. We’ll be also receiving our new orders from Commodore Stone, the base commander. Personally, I’m looking forward to meet an old friend and to have some R &R, after our first – and rather stressful – mission.**

Kirk touched the Pause taste, ordering his thoughts. Then, after a moment, he continued.

**Lieutenant Commander Willard Decker has more than justified my trust in his abilities. He might be young and inexperienced, but he will be an excellent commanding officer one day. As for our new science officer, Lieutenant Xon has been very reserved so far. He has not repeated the mistakes of his first day of bridge duty, which is, at least, promising. But he seems to consciously avoid his fellow staff officers; a behaviour that Mr. Spock never displayed. I might have to speak with him about it, as it does not improve the working atmosphere of Alpha shift. Kirk out.**

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
In the meantime, this being Gamma Shift – or graveyard shift, as it was generally nicknamed – the object of Captain Kirk’s concern was having command of the main bridge. Usually, this would have been Lieutenant Jaeger’s shift, but since Lieutenant Jaeger was yet to come aboard at Starbase 13, someone had to fill his place. Kirk had thought that Xon would profit from the command experience and scheduled him for bridge duty so that he would gain some.

Xon did not really mind. This was the proverbial milk run if there ever had been any, and even Gamma Shift ran with ersatz personnel, to give them the chance to become familiar with the refitted board systems. As a result, the bridge was filled with junior officers on their first tour aboard the _Enterprise_.

The atmosphere was relaxed, routine… almost bored. Ensign Saul Bernstein, the chief helmsman of Gamma shift – a lanky human from the Hasidim colony in his mid-thirties, with a somewhat saturnine sense of humour – could have flown the ship on this route with his eyes closed. Lieutenant Park, the science officer on duty – a small, rotund Tellarite female whose special field was radiation biology, one of the newest border disciplines – was working on some personal project for her second dissertation, while keeping half an eye on the readings. She was a highly capable researcher who could multitask with the best.

Xon himself was relaxing in the command chair – as far as it was possible for a Vulcan in his situation – and while a diminutive part of his extremely well-organized mind was overseeing the bridge routine, the rest of his mental energy was being channelled through the safe pathways of meditation. It wasn’t very different from a human praying the rosary during an uneventful duty shift, really… if one left the complexity of the Vulcan psyche - and the absolute necessity to keep it firmly grounded - out of consideration. Young for a Vulcan, Xon needed these exercises even more, serving on a ship full of humans and other blatantly illogical beings.

He was startled out of his meditation by Ensign Bernstein who perked up at the helm a bit.

“There’s something on the forward viewer, Mr. Xon,” he reported, eager to escape routined boredom, if only for a minute. "Looks like a nebula of some sort.”

That was a fairly unscientific definition, but Xon refrained from correcting the helmsman. He’d already learned that humans didn’t take such corrections kindly, for some reason - illogical as it seemed to cling to one’s misconceptions.

“Slow to warp factor one, Mr. Bernstein,” he ordered. “Sensor scans, Lieutenant Park.”

Bernstein nodded enthusiastically, the long locks that hung over his ears almost down to his collarbone – this had something to do with his religion, so regulations yielded – bouncing merrily, and carried out the order. At the same time, Lieutenant Park pushed a sequence of buttons in front of her and consulted the hooded viewer for the results of the scans. She was a highly efficient science officer and a lot easier to get along with than your regular Tellarite.

“This is not a nebula, sir,” she reported excitedly. “I’m picking up several kinds of energy _and_ radiation readings. I’ve never seen anything like this before.” 

Which was a lot to say, as Park had seen a great many things during her thirteen years of duty in Starfleet.

Xon was aware of that, of course. A Vulcan eyebrow slowly climbed up to the neat hairline.

“Put it on the main viewer, Mr. Bernstein,” he ordered.

Bernstein hit a button, and a swirling gaseous mass appeared on the main screen. It had pulsing points of light within it that moved about like fish darting through water.

“Magnify,” Xon said, fascinated by the pattern.

Bernstein shook his head, his long locks bouncing again. “We’re at maximum magnification, sir. This is the best I can offer you – so far. But we’re heading right for it.”

Xon rose from the command chair and approached his more natural place, the science console, currently occupied by Lieutenant Park. “Any conclusive data, Lieutenant Park?” he asked.

Narrowing her short-sighted eyes, the Tellarite looked into the hooded viewer again. 

“No visible danger, sir,” she reported. “Radiation and electromagnetic readings are well within our tolerance limits. If you’d care to see for yourself…” she stood and stepped aside to allow Xon to look into the viewer briefly.

“You are quite correct, Lieutenant,” the Vulcan declared. “Force fields to manual,” he added, directing his words to the security officer on duty. “Point eight five deflection aspect.”

“Are we taking the _Enterprise_ through, sir?” Park asked. “This is a phenomenon we should survey and map.”

“I quite agree,” Xon answered, “But I prefer not to do it without consulting the captain first.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Needless to say that Captain Kirk did _not_ appreciate being called out of his resting period to take a look at some unknown gaseous anomaly. Although he’d never admit, he had reached the age in which a man began to appreciate an undisturbed night’s rest in his own, comfortable bed. On the other hand, he couldn’t really blame Xon. As harmless as the anomaly seemed to the prefunctionary sensor readings, one could never tell in advance whether it would turn out dangerous by closer inspection. There were more things in deep space than one could imagine, most of them treacherous.

Deciding that misery loved company, Kirk ordered all senor officers to the bridge. When he got there some ten minutes later, the _Enterprise_ had already come to full stop, having lain behind half the distance to the anomaly. Now they were close enough for a detailed view.

Saul Bernstein half-rose to allow Sulu to take his place but the chief helmsman just shook his head and gestured him to stay where he was. Sulu had begun his career in the science department as an astrophysicist, and his career change had not diminished his fascination with unknown cosmic phenomena. He wanted to focus on this one, without having to care for the helm.

“Full magnification,” Kirk ordered.

“Full magnification, aye,” Bernstein threw a switch on his console, and in the next moment the main viewer was filled with something… something none of them had ever seen before. 

Not even anything _remotely_ similar.

At first sight, it _did_ look like a cloud. At least that was how one could have described it, lacking the correct scientific terminology. Indeed, it was a great deal like those layered clouds often seen upon Earth’s sky – for the naked eye anyway –, illuminated from below in a wide angle by the reddish rays of the setting sun. This faint, reddish glimmer seemed to jump from layer to layer like a living thing. 

All eyes were fixed on the main screen in absolute awe, save those of Xon, who was standing behind Lieutenant Park at Science Station I, absorbed in the readings.

“Fascinating,” he murmured.

Kirk turned to him impatiently. “Can you tell us something, Lieutenant?”

“The data are still insufficient to build a solid hypothesis, sir,” the young science officer answered. “And unfounded speculation is unbecoming of a self-respecting scientist.”

“Try nonetheless,” Kirk said dryly.

Xon gave him a disapprovingly raised eyebrow but obeyed. “Well, Captain, this… _cloud_ seems to be in a somewhat fluidic state between matter and energy,” he said.

“It… _seems to be_?” Kirk repeated slowly.

“Aye, sir. If our sensor scans are correct - and I see no reason why they should _not_ be correct - is this… _cloud_ ,” Xon still seemed to hesitate to use this practical but scientifically unfounded term, “neither fully matter nor fully energy. This is a cosmic phenomenon unlike anything any Federation starship has ever encountered.”

“Are sure about that?” Will Decker asked doubtfully.

Xon exercised himself in the unparalleled Vulcan virtue of patience. “You can check it with the library computer, of course, but I am quite certain that you will find nothing, sir,” he replied; then he added in a somewhat dry manner. “Particle physics is one of my fields of expertise, after all.”

Kirk looked around at the concerned faces of his senior officers. “Any suggestions?” he asked.

“Subspace channels are temporarily useless, sir, due to heavy disturbances,” Uhura, who was checking the readings of the comm-console over Lieutenant M’ress’ shoulder, told him. “I suggest putting more distance between us and this… phenomenon, whatever it is. We won’t be able to use subspace radio as long as we’re this close.”

“We could take the ship through it,” Sulu suggested brightly. “That thing lies directly in our way. Let’s see what it does when we tickle it a bit.”

“Are ya daft, Mr Sulu?” Scotty demanded, exasperation thickening his accent to new dimensions. “Xon has just told ye we havnae a clue what the bloody thing is! How do ya think the shields are gonna react to it?”

“That’s something I’d like to find out,” the chief helmsman declared with a broad grin.

Kirk glanced at the concerned security chief. Since he’d taken over his new post, Chekov had been concerned without a break. “What do you think, Mr. Chekov?”

The Russian shook his head. “I wouldn’t take any unnecessary risks, _Keptin_.” Since he’d taken over his new post, Pavel Andreievich had become a sworn enemy of risk-taking. “We could fly _around_ the cloud and still gather valuable data.”

Before taking over as chief of security, Chekov had not only been the chief navigator of the _Enterprise_ but also worked for Spock on a regular basis. Apparently, he hadn’t completely lost all scientific interests at the Security Academy.

“So, nobody aside from Sulu would vote for a journey _through_ the cloud?” Kirk asked with slight disappointment. Now that he’d seen it, his curiosity was piqued, and he’d have liked to learn more about it. They were an exploratory ship, after all.

“Oh, but I would,” Lieutenant Ilia said quietly. “I’d just _love_ to go through it. It would be a criminal waste not to take a closer look, even if it _does_ involve certain risks. We won’t likely get another chance.”

“What do you think, Lieutenant?” Kirk turned to the Vulcan. “Could the cloud mean any danger for the Enterprise?”

“Without further observation I cannot offer any solid theory,” Xon repeated his previous declaration. “I need more data. However, if I am allowed to make a suggestion…”

“Of course you are, Lieutenant,” Kirk replied sarcastically. “That is what you are here for, isn’t it?”

“Indeed, Captain,” Xon said politely.

“And your suggestion would be…?” Kirk found it hard _not_ to urge his new science officer. Xon, perhaps because of his youth, or perhaps because he’d grown up on the isolated scientific colony of Vulcana Regar, apparently found it more complicated to interact with humans than Spock had.

That, or Kirks own prejudices got in the way of his judgement. It was hard to watch this youngling occupy a place that would have belonged to Spock.

“You should consult Doctor Adzhin-Dall,” Xon said simply. “As far as I know, he is currently one of the best scientist in the fields of bipolar mathematics and particle physics.”

“That’s an excellent suggestion, Lieutenant,” Kirk nodded. “I should have thought about it myself. Lieutenant M’ress, please call Doctor Adzhin-Dall to the bridge.”

“Aye-aye, sir,” the orange-maned Caitian comm officer was already at it.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
A few minutes later the turbolift door opened and allowed Jedda Adzhin-Dall onto the bridge. All women present – with the exception of Lieutenant Ilia – turned away from him immediately to pull themselves together again. Deltan pheromones had the same invisible yet irresistible effect on the opposite gender as ultrasound on certain animals. The reaction was purely reflexive, and the only thing one could do against it was to wait until it ebbed down.

The slender, broad-shouldered Deltan scientist was used to such reactions, of course, and pretended not to have noticed the embarrassment of the ladies. He was every bit as elegant and graceful as his partner, Lieutenant Ilia, but his wide amethyst eyes showed that he belonged to the less numerous _Resh-da_ population. This small tribe lived on the southwestern continent of 114 Delta V and trained the best terraforming (well, actually deltaforming) experts in the known galaxy.

“I’ve been watching the phenomenon on the viewer of Stellar Cartography, Captain,” he said without preamble; his voice was musical yet not the least feminine, and he had an exotic accent that made even a language as plain as Standard sound pleasant. “I must agree with Mr. Xon: this is something no Federation scientist has seen before. The readings…”

“Please spare me the details fort he moment, Doctor Adzhin-Dall,” Kirk interrupted. “Tell me just this: can we risk taking the Enterprise directly through the cloud?”

“With impulse? Most certainly,” the Deltan replied without hesitation. “I wouldn’t risk going to warp within the cloud, though – or even in its immediate neighbourhood. There’s a good chance that it won’t cause any problems, but as I said, this is a completely unknown phenomenon, so caution can’t harm. We know nothing about it yet.”

“And you’d just love to change that fact, wouldn’t you?” Kirk asked, mildly amused. 

Scientists! They were a hopeless case, unrelated to age, species or gender.

Jedda grinned at him like a loon. “And _how_ I’d like to change it, Captain!”

“It would be highly illogical to leave such a unique opportunity unused,” Xon supported him, with an almost fanatic gleam in his eyes that only a new scientific discovery – or the blood fever – could put into any Vulcan’s eye. The latter being rather unlikely at the moment, it had to be the scientific excitement – as far as Vulcans were capable of it.

“All right, then,” Kirk laughed. “We’re gonna fly through it – whatever it is. Mr. Bernstein, take us through by twenty per cent sublight. After all, we’re out here to discover new things, aren’t we? The science department is entitled to have a little fun from time to time, too. How long would we need to cross the cloud?”

“Forty-nine hours twenty-six minutes, sir,” Sulu answered promptly, even before Xon could have reacted. Seeing Kirk’s bafflement, he added with a beatific smile. “I’ve done a bit of preliminary calculations, sir.”

“I’m impressed,” Kirk said, withstanding the urge to roll his eyes. “Well, Mr. Bernstein, take us through, so that those _not_ from the science department can return to their beds.”

“Course set, Captain,” Bernstein replied. “At your mark.”

“Mark,” Kirk ordered, and marched to the turbolift, without as much as another glance at the main viewer.

It was just a cosmic cloud, after all. And, according to Sulu’s calculations, it would still be there when he’d begin his duty on Alpha shift, in six hours’ time.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
The science department saw it differently, of course. Xon had called everyone from all related fields to their stations, and they were taking readings, mapping and correlating data, comparing theories and the likes for the rest of Gamma Shift and the entire following Alpha Shift. After that, Xon ordered them to rest, leaving only the science crew of Beta Shift at the cartography computers.

Ensign Jana Haines, who’d been sitting at Science Station 2, turned to the Vulcan. “Mr. Xon, may I relocate to the astrophysics lab? I’d like to make a few special records of this phenomenon – they could prove useful for my dissertation.”

Xon nodded. “Of course, Ensign. I will take over for you here.”

“Thank you, sir,” Haines was already vacating her seat.

“There is no need to thank me,” Xon replied. “The phenomenon is fascinating; I would keep studying it in any case; I can do it as well from here.”

“May I join you?” Adzhin-Dall asked Haines. “That is, if I won’t disturb you…”

“Of course not, Doctor,” the astrophysicist laughed. “It’s me who’ll gain a lot by your cooperation.”

“Don't be so modest,” Adzhin-Dall said on their way to the turbolift. “I’ve read your most recent article in the _Annals of Astrophysics_ , and I must admit that you’ve formed a few brilliant theories concerning the energy transformations in…” The rest was lost as the turbolift doors closed behind them.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Lieutenant Xon, the astrochemist Lieutenant Gates, Ensign Haines and Jedda Adzhin-Dall continued the specific scans and records during the entire Beta Shift. After that, even Xon was too tired to focus properly, so he yielded to the logical consequence and went back to his quarters to meditate. Gates had given up hours earlier and was now sleeping, bent over one of the off-line consoles, the russet freckles a lot more visible on her exhausted, pale face than usual.

“Grant yourself a break,” Sulu said to the Deltan scientist. “I can continue here for you. I used to be an astrophysicist, after all, before I opted for reassignment to the bridge crew.”

“But you’ve got your rest period right now, Commander,” Jedda protested.

“True, but I’ve just slept through Beta Shift,” Sulu pointed out. “Allow me the fun of doing a little scientific research again.”

“All right,” the Deltan laughed. “I’ll go to the observations lounge then and take a real look at this wonder. No matter how advanced our instruments may be, they’ll never be able to replace the intimacy of true sight.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Sulu nodded and took place at the spectroscope. “Have fun!”

Usually, Deltans could take the same workload as any Vulcan. Under other circumstances, Jedda would have stayed in the astrophysics lab, to help Xon – who had come back after half an hour of meditation already – with the gathering and analysing of additional data. This time, however, he followed Sulu’s advice and excused himself after a mere fourteen hours, feeling the need to gain that “more intimate” impression of the cloud he’d spoken about. Something he could only do from the observation lounge.

He wasn’t surprised that Ilia joined him at the moment he reached the turbolift. They were so attuned to each other that they could read the other’s mind without conscious effort – and _this_ was something they wanted to share.

Technically, the observations lounge – at least according to the labels on both the doors and the _Enterprise_ ’s blueprints – was the upmost level of the rec deck and could be accessed via turbolift or a stairway from the officers’ lounge. Still, nobody called it that way. The most important factor was that the observations lounge was the only place on the entire ship not covered by monocrystallic iridium-rhodium deck plates. The only place where a direct, real-time view at the space that lay before the ship was possible.

Consequently, this was the most vulnerable spot of the _Enterprise_ , even though the large, slightly arched windows were made of transparent aluminium and installed into the bulkhead with a method that practically melted them with the deck plates. Still, the crew would not willingly give up on the chance to look at the cosmos with their own eyes instead of relaying completely on the view transmitted to them by sensors and viewscreens.

The observation lounge was rarely empty when the _Enterprise_ was travelling through real space, but right now, more people were either working furiously in the silence lab, or resting, after having done the same way beyond their usual working schedule. Only at the farthest window stood a short, deceivingly fragile figure, wearing the golden uniform of the security section. The short, cotton-soft white hair and the blunt, knobbly antennae peeking out of it revealed the person as an Andorian. Unlike other races, Andorians had bug-like, long torsoes compared with their relatively short limbs, making the bizarre impression that they were taller sitting than standing.

Lieutenant Lamia – to spare her crewmates, she only used her clan-name in the official records – noticed the feather-like footsteps of the two Deltans and wiggled her antennae in their direction, in a manner of greeting. Unlike the aggressive and combative majority of her people, she was a definitely sociable person – at least in Andorian terms. Otherwise she couldn’t have served on a ship with five hundred crew, mostly humans, with only half a dozen from her own kind.

Ilia and Jedda didn’t want to disturb the quiet contemplation of the Andorian woman, so they stopped at the closest window. Once again, Ilia realized why the observation lounge was nicknamed NAZ-Deck (Nearly Absolute Zero Deck). Although each window was equipped with a protective force-field of its own, they were still icy cold. If she reached out to touch them, she got a good impression of the terrible cold of space; of that eternal, jet-black winter that not even the strongest radiation of the largest and hottest suns could ever hope to soothe.

The two Deltans touched the window plane. Their kind aspired to experience the fullest intensity of each sensation, in every given moment of their lives. Most of them, like Jedda himself, intended to enjoy the strongest possible intensity of pleasure. Very few of them chose the way of pain. Ilia – by her true Deltan name Ei’lia Maprida’hn – was one of those selected few… at least in certain situations. And as it was custom among partners, Jedda followed her down this path in those times.

They seldom touched each other in the presence of outsiders, but Lamia was an exception. They stood snuggled together in front of the huge widow, close enough to feel the merciless, destructive cold of space, despite the isolation field. The cloud surrounded them from all directions. Its beautiful, purplish glint jumped from layer to layer, trembling and gleaming, producing a light spectacle that they’d never seen before. Not in their conscious life; nor in the visionary collective memory of their species.

Ei’lia and Jedda surrendered to this endless, icy beauty completely. They extended their souls – or the part of their being that, in Deltan terms, would be the rough equivalent of a human soul – to the outmost limits, opening themselves to the complex harmonies of the cloud unconditionally. Being an extremely sensual people, Deltans had a strong reaction to both visual and audible stimuli; besides, like Vulcans, they could sense the vibrations of electromagnetic fields directly. The mysterious, gleaming cloud was providing them with a unique experience they couldn’t even dream of before.

This wasn’t mere seeing. Due to the construction of Deltan eyes, the vibrations of the cloud also registered in their inner ear, echoing in the form of foreign harmonies that woke torturous desire in them with their almost painful perfection, like the reminiscences of an old, great, unrequited love. Unrequited love was a fate worse than death for a Deltan. They _needed_ each other’s physical and mental closeness to a degree that most of them could only live and work in group marriages, or they would have starved to death, both emotionally and physically.

Not that it happened frequently on 114 Delta V. In a society that used sexual encounters for practically every aspect of daily life, such danger for the single individual was extremely rare. But there _were_ exceptions, like in everything else, and public opinion found those rare cases a regrettable thing. It was also a favoured topic of psychodramas.

Ei’lia felt and recognized the delicately budding desire inside her. Her bald head, which – being now off-duty – was adorned with the pearl-embroidered broad, black velvet headband worn by women available and ready for their partners, turned to the side, resting on Jedda’s broad shoulder. Her thoughts – or, to be more accurate, the seductive mental pictures Deltans exchanged telepathically before going over to the more… substantial forms of foreplay – began to branch out to Jedda with gentle, enticing calls. 

Jedda answered her at once, of course. No Deltan would ever refuse his or her partner. Not even under normal circumstances. Even less so after sharing a mental challenge of the magnificence that the cloud represented for them.

They didn’t look at each other. Fixing their eyes on the trembling, glittering harmonies of the cloud, they could almost physically feel the growing and extending of their _l’haran_ – the summary of the mental abilities that built the complex structure of Deltan intelligence, telepathy and sexuality, Of all the older races of the Galaxy, Deltans were the one that had achieved the highest level of unity between body and soul – to put it the hopelessly simplicistic way of human speech.

“We cannot stay here,” Jedda spoke out with quiet words that which they were both feeling. “It would be irresponsible.”

Ei’lia nodded, full of sorrow. From a Deltan point of view, most humanoid races were sexually inferior. Had she and Jedda stayed here, in the observations lounge, to love each other in the magnificent and inspiring presence of the cloud, it would have led to a scandal. Lamia wouldn’t mind – after all, Andorian marriages required four individuals to be accepted as a lawful bond – but the observation lounge was a public place. Someone less enlightened could have come in… and taken offence.

“Let’s go home,” she said in agreement. They waved at Lamia, who answered with another friendly wiggle of her antennae, and left, feeling the loss as soon as they walked out the door.

As the chief navigator of the ship, Lieutenant Ilia would have had her quarters on Deck Five. However, as a civilian scientist, Jedda couldn’t have lived there. Thus they’d been given one of he larger quarters on Deck Four, together with other civilians assigned permanently to the Enterprise; like Dr. T’Pel, the Vulcan historian and sociologist, Mr. Singh from Engineering, Cassiopeia from the rec deck and a few others. They couldn’t find much in common with the Vulcan, but since Cassiopeia had lived on Seyalia for a while, they had become fairly close – as close as a Deltan could get with a foreigner after such a short time.

When they reached their destination, Cassiopeia was just stepping out of the other turbolift, wearing an extravagant, shoulder-free dress, as usual. She was pretty enough for a human, and the Deltans appreciated the artistic skill to display and emphasise her assets all the time.

“Done for the day?” Ilia asked. 

The blonde beauty nodded, giving them one of her bright smiles.

“You’ve got those hooded eyes again,” she added teasingly. “Do you never tire of each other?”

“We’re still young,” Jedda explained with dignity. “You should use some proper stimulation yourself. One day you really should have dinner with us; you and your current partner.”

Cassiopeia laughed. “I don’t think Singh would be very comfortable with that,” she said.

“Well, he’s a Hindu,” Jedda pointed out. “His people have created the Kama Sutra, after all, haven’t they?”

Cassiopeia shook her head in regret.

“He’s still way too shy and sexually inhibited for your little games,” she said. “I’m afraid I’ll have my work cut out for me with him for quite some time yet.”

“What a pity,” Jedda said half-seriously. “I so hoped that we’ll be able to seduce you into some playing one day.”

“It _is_ tempting,” Cassiopeia admitted. “But you know how humans think about fidelity – well, most Earth humans anyway. Singh would interpret it as cheating – and I’ve not grown tired of him yet.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Jedda declared genially. “I can wait.”

Cassiopeia laughed, shook her head in mock exasperation and keyed in her code to enter her quarters. The two Deltans followed suit. Thanks to Jedda’s civilian status (and the new regulations), they didn’t have to go with Starfleet-issue furniture. Instead, they had a Deltan environment here, with lush plants, comfortable armchairs and couches that didn’t chafe their sensitive skin, with incense floating the air and beautiful, hand-made Deltan hangings on the walls.

While Jedda prepared the bedroom. Ei’lia fetched her _jah’tagan_ , a three-string Deltan instrument, and let her fingers glide across the strings. Their thoughts had already taken shape and colour, following the melody; being the members of a telepathic race, they had no need for words. They were quiet during the elaborate cleansing ritual, and silently did they move on to the bedchamber, to turn their erotic fantasies into reality.

The crew often discussed, out of curiosity, what Deltans might be doing when they were alone. These people would be probably surprised if they knew that a great deal of Deltan sexuality – despite the race’s sensual nature – happened on a spiritual level so deep that not even other telepathically gifted species could have followed them.

Ei’lia reached out for her lover. Their focus narrowed to each other, shutting out everything except themselves in the unparalleled unity of body and soul.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
As the _Enterprise_ travelled through the cloud, large pulses of white light were gliding past her. The scientist of Beta Shift kept getting readings, but as they only used instruments, not true sight, none of them noticed one of the swimming light pulses change direction and follow along with the ship for a while. Then a small section of the light ball took off and began traversing the outer skin of the ship… until it abruptly disappeared into the _Enterprise_ , passing through bulkheads and closed downs without resistance.

In the VIP-sector, Uhura was sleeping peacefully in the warm circle of Tigh’s arms, a smile on her face. Neither of them awoke when the light entity entered their quarters, making its way directly to Uhura. It quickly scanned the length of her body, making another pass and pausing first at her abdomen and then at her head. Uhura stretched languorously at the light-touch as though experiencing something sensual and pleasant.

Tigh felt her movement in his sleep and opened his eyes, narrowly missing the light entity’s hurried retreat through the bulkhead.

“What is it, heart of flame?” he asked quietly.

Waking up, too, Uhura smiled at him dreamily. “I don’t know,” she answered in a husky voice, “but for some reason I feel that it would be a shame to waste this night with sleeping.”

Tigh raised an eyebrow – a gently sarcastic gesture completely lost in the darkness oft heir quarters. “I think I can be persuaded to spend the rest of it more… creatively,” he said, with warmth in his voice. “It’s nearly over as it is, after all – and you’re off-duty for the next ten or so _centares_.”

“ _Hours_ ,” beloved,” Uhura corrected, laughing. “Now, _be_ creative!”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
In the meantime, the light entity moved on, passing through other bulkheads, to the senior officers’ section. It entered Chekov’s quarters, heading directly for the room’s sleeping occupant. It scanned the man’s body the same way as it had dome with Uhura, but did not explore his head at the second pass. Chekov also appeared to enjoy the entity’s survey of his abdomen; he was still writhing with pleasure as the entity moved out again.

Ilia and Jedda slept in the faint afterglow of their passionate love-making, wrapped around each other like one being. The entity lingered over Ilia’s head a long time, causing her move sensuously against Jedda. Finally, the entity pulled away for a moment and hovered in the air over them, growing brighter and more animated. Then it plunged inside Ilia’s body through her abdominal wall; her body moved spasmodically in reaction, but neither she nor Jedda woke up, although her writhing continued until it reached a peak during which her entire body seemed to glow. Then the glow gathered itself at her head. Her body relaxed again, and the glow, becoming the light entity once more, removed itself and retreated through the bulkhead.

Sliding along the corridor’s ceiling, the entity reached the aft end of the ship, where it penetrated the hull without a trace and rejoined the light ball that had paced the _Enterprise_. Strangely enough, nothing of this had registered on the on-duty scientist’s instruments.


	4. Expecting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The ship classes described here are from _The Star Fleet Technical Manual_ By Franz Joseph.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
CHAPTER 04: EXPECTING**

Ilia woke up so abruptly as if the klaxons of red alert had gone off right next to her ears. She bolted upright and pressed a slender hand onto her wildly beating heart. No, it wasn’t an alert… all she could hear was her own heartbeat. But why was her heart beating so fast, so arhythmically? Was something wrong, was there some hidden danger only she could feel, due to her specific Deltan sensitivity?

Her fear was so strong that Jedda could feel it even in his sleep and woke up as well.

“Is something wrong?” he asked quietly. Like all Deltans, he was fully awake in the moment he opened his eyes.

Ilia shook her head uncertainly. “Nothing. I don’t know what woke me up.”

“Ever since we’ve flown through the cloud, you keep waking up each night,” Jedda said, concerned. “Not even Zinaida had such a restless sleep when with child…” He trailed off, his deep amethyst eyes widening in realization. “Ei’lia, could it be…?”

His partner, however, shook her head determinedly. “It’s impossible. My extensive phase is going to last for another thirty-two standard months.”

“Right,” Jedda murmured. “What could it be then?”

“I don’t know,” Ilia replied gloomily, “but I think it’s high time to find out,” and she swung her legs over the edge of their bed.

“Where are you going?” Jedda asked. She gave him a look that was the Deltan equivalent of an eyeroll, as if she’d expected him to be quicker at figuring out the obvious.

“To Sickbay. Christine Chapel has night shift; I’ll ask her to do some routine tests.”

“I’m going with you,” Jedda offered, but Ilia shook her head.

“I’d rather go alone, if you don’t mind.”

This was an unusual choice coming from a Deltan woman – partners always dealt with family-related issues together – but it didn’t really surprise Jedda. Ei’lia had always been a little… eccentric, especially if she didn’t feel well. It was better not to argue with her when she was in this mood.

“All right,” he sighed,” but do call me if you need any help.”

Ilia nodded wordlessly, and – wrapping herself in a short white bathrobe – she left their quarters, hurrying in the direction of the nearest turbolift. She was so immersed in her thoughts that she didn’t even see the various crewmembers of night shift going after their business, then stopping and staring at her in bewilderment.

“Deck Seven,” she said, stepping into the turbolift cabin, and it moved on with her dutifully.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Christine Chapel, head nurse of the _Enterprise_ for the last seven years, liked night shift. Firstly, because the majority of the crew usually slept through the simulated night. Bare any emergencies, she had very little to do and could work on her dissertation (her second one, as she’d already owned a degree in biochemistry when she came aboard all those years ago) in peace. There wasn’t much more to do, just the last small changes, and night shift was the perfect time to make those.

Secondly because Dr. M’Benga was the duty doctor during night shift, and M’Benga usually buried himself in one of the labs with his assistant, Nurse Johnson, and not only let her use the duty doctor’s office (with the much more advanced computer terminal in it) but also trusted her to run the shop independently, unless some emergency happened. As she was on her way to become a medical doctor, soon, she enjoyed being in charge – although unofficially – very much.

The ever-waggling tongues of the medical section liked to gossip about how Dr. M’Benga and Nurse Johnson do other things that research during night shift, but the head nurse dismissed those rumours. While it was true that Ben and Cindy Lou’s relationship went beyond professional cooperation, why should they use one of the labs for a romantic encounter? Fleet regulations no longer prohibited intimate relationships between the ranks, so they could meet in their respective quarters after work any time they wanted.

Chapel had the suspicion that the driving force behind those rumours was simple jealousy from Nurse Webster’s side. The pretty young Joan had her eye on the popular doctor herself and had a hard time to accept that M’Benga was attracted to Cindy Lou instead of her, although everyone could see that the two were a much better match. A scorned young woman could rarely accept such simple truths, though, and all that gossiping started to make the working atmosphere in Sickbay unpleasant. 

_Doctor McCoy ought to stop it_ , Chapel thought, _and if he doesn’t realize that on his own, I’ll have to warn him._

The head nurse was a tall, handsome lady, but the melancholy expression on her somewhat long face and the old-fashioned bun in which she usually wore her hair made her look like a lonely virgin aunt. The emphatically sensitive Ilia always felt a great deal of pity when around her. Not because she knew about Christine’s unrequited love for Spock; practically everyone on board knew about _that_. It was also a widely-known fact that Christine had managed to overcome that feeling through sheer willpower and buried it in a rarely-visited, far-away corner of her heart.

But Ilia also felt that Christine was the kind of woman with an uncanny talent to always fall for the wrong man. Which was probably the reason whey she could never establish a lasting, satisfying relationship, despite her many excellent trait. It was like a pre-determined curse… and quite painful to watch.

Ilia only ever discussed this with Jedda, of course. Deltans always shared everything with their partners, as they could be certain that these would never pass down the grapevine anything they had been told in confidence. For a while, they had even tried to figure out ways to help Christine – as it really disturbed Ilia to see someone being so permanently unhappy – but they had to realize that doing so was not in their power. Still, they had built a friendship with the lonely woman, one that Chapel clearly appreciated very much – a lot more than she would show on the outside. Not that she would need to. Deltan telepathy being what it was, she would have a hard time to try _hiding_ her gratitude from them.

She looked up from the screen with her customary, almost motherly smile when Ilia entered the duty doctor’s office, in which she was working, as usual.

“Lieutenant Ilia?” she said in surprise. “I’d say it’s unexpected to have you here in the middle of the night. Is everything all right with you?”

“I don’t know, Christine,” like all female officers, Ilia usually addressed the head nurse by her given name. “I’ve had trouble to sleep for days by now; and somehow I have the feeling that my heart doesn’t work as it’s supposed to.”

“In what way?” Chapel became all business in a second.

Ilia shrugged her deceivingly thin shoulders. “I cannot describe it very well… my heartbeat seems… arrhythmic, somehow, not like its usual pattern. I feel… I feel alienated from myself, as silly as it may sound.”

“That may sound silly coming from a human, but not from a Deltan,” Chapel laid an encouraging arm around the Deltan woman’s shoulder – she was a good head taller than Ilia – and led her to the examination table in the adjoining room. “Lie down here; I’ll run a general check on you, and after that we’ll know more.”

Ilia stretched out on the examination table obediently. Chapel tilted it and fixed it in a horizontal position, then switched on the medical scanners and adjusted them for Deltan biosignals. The indicators began a wild dance immediately, and the empty room was filled with the strange sounds of a truly arrhythmic heartbeat. There were tiny, throbbing noises between the calm, strong heartbeats so typical for Deltans.

Chapel frowned, studied the readings… and then her face broke into a broad, conspiratory grin.

“There’s nothing wrong with you, Lieutenant,” she announced.

“But that irregular heartbeat…”Ilia began.

“… originates from your baby,” Chapel interrupted.

“From my… _what_?” Ilia was so shocked she could barely phrase a coherent question. Chapel’s grin softened to a gently smile.

“You are pregnant, Ilia,” she explained patiently.

“Impossible!” Ilia protested, but Chapel turned the screen to her to show her the readings.

“The instruments don’t lie Lieutenant,” she said. “You _are_ pregnant, in approximately the sixth week. See for yourself if you don’t believe me.”

“That’s not the point, Christine,” Ilia studied the readings, which proved Chapel’s diagnosis without any doubt, in bewilderment. “I don’t know how familiar you are with the peculiarities of Deltan biology…”

“Familiar enough, I’d say,” Chapel replied. “Exobiology and multispecies-medicine are my special fields.”

“In that case you’d know what the extensive phase of a Deltan woman is,” Ilia said.

Chapel thought for a moment – then her jaw hit the floor. “Are you telling me that you’re currently in your extensive phase?” she asked.

Ilia nodded. “In the first trimester of the phase, to be accurate.”

“But… but you shouldn’t be _capable_ of conceiving, then!” Chapel said, completely flabbergasted. “Or are there exceptions?”

“As far back as Deltan medical data are available, there hasn’t been a single precedence in the last five hundred thousand standard years,” Ilia replied. “I happened to do some research for a friend, that’s why I know it.”

“Well, possible or not, I can’t change the facts,” Chapel said apologetically. “You are pregnant, and that’s a fact,” she paused and asked gently. “Is this a problem for you?”

“Oh, yes, it is,” Ilia answered in concern. “Firstly, it’s not _normal_. Deltan women of my age don’t get pregnant – especially not in the extensive phase, when we aren’t even fertile to begin with. Secondly, I have just managed to be assigned to Starfleet’s flagship; this is the worst possible time for maternity leave. Not to mention that we are at the furthest shore of known space, which makes getting home anything but easy. Besides, Jedda’s research is also endangered; he won’t be able to stay on board without me, which would mean a serious setback for his scientific career.”

“I see,” Chapel said thoughtfully. “You appear to have a problem here indeed. Well, I suggest that you talk to Uhura.”

“To Uhura?” Ilia repeated in surprise. ”What for?”

“I’m not sure,” Chapel admitted. “But I do know that in Captain Pike’s time she had permission to keep her little son on board. Perhaps she can tell you how she’d managed that particular bargain.”

“Interesting,” Ilia murmured. “Perhaps you’re right. I will talk to her. Thank you, Christine.”

“There’s nothing to thank for,” the head nurse smiled at her in that motherly manner again. “And do come back tomorrow again, will you? I’d like Dr. M’Benga to take a look at the results – he is our multispecies expert, after all. I’m sure he’ll want to run some more tests; I’d do them myself, but I’m not yet qualified; and besides, we wouldn’t manage them before the end of night shift.”

“I will,” Ilia promised. “I’ll come right after the beginning of night shift. Good night, Christine.”

“Try to have some sleep, sweetheart,” the head nurse waved after her, as she walked out of sickbay to return to her quarters.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Her burgeoning panic had alarmed Jedda well before she’d have reached Deck Five again. When she entered her cabin, her partner had already understood everything.

“Nurse Chapel is right,” he said, after having cleared a few details. “You must speak with Commander Uhura… especially as Captain Kirk seems to respect her opinion.” He glanced at Ilia’s pale and unhappy little face and asked gently. “Can you bear it till the morning or shall I call her now?”

“It’s very late,” Ilia protested, “and she’s on Alpha Shift, too. If we wake her up now, she’ll be dead on her feet all day.”

“And _you_ won’t?” Jedda hugged her and rubbed her narrow back to comfort her with his presence; Deltans had an overwhelming need to be touched when in distress. “I know you, Ei’lia; if you can’t speak her now, you won’t be able to sleep at all… and you’re responsible for the well-being of the baby, too. Besides, a distracted navigator represents a much greater risk for the ship than a sleep-deprived communications officer.”

“I know,” Ilia sighed. “Still, if would be terribly selfish…”

“Let’s compromise,” Jedda suggested. “I’ll call her quarters but without audio signal. If she does see the light blink, we’ll go over. If not, we’ll wait until tomorrow.”

“All right,” Ilia gave in and snuggled closer to his lower right side, where the Deltan heart was situated.

Jedda placed the call to Uhura’s quarters, visual only. To his surprise, the screen came alive at once, displaying the dark, elegant, beautiful face of Colonel Tigh, Uhura’s long-time partner.

“Can I help you?” Tigh asked in his low, slightly hoarse voice that didn’t seem to match the elegance of his features and his bearing. But again, he had been a professional soldier – a Colonial Warrior, as they called it – for a long time. Some of the military tones and manners ought to remain,

“May I speak to Commander Uhura?” Jedda asked politely. The colonel was said to have a rather volatile temper, so he thought a careful approach would be better.

Tigh scratched a naked shoulder absent-mindedly. Only the upper part of his bare chest was visible on the screen – Jedda mentally noted that it was a nice sight for a human of his age – but there could be no doubt that he’d jumped out of bed to answer the call. The movement of sleek muscles under his mahogany skin distracted the Deltan momentarily, but then Jedda pulled himself together. He had more important things to do than ogle the colonel, nice view or not.

“She’s sleeping,” Tigh finally answered. “Can’t this wait till the morning? She’s had trouble sleeping ever since we crossed that damn cloud; I’d hate to wake her up for nothing.”

“I’m afraid it’s really important,” Jedda said apologetically. “We’ve got a similar problem… yet one with potentially serious consequences, I’d say.”

“Very well,” Tigh said reluctantly. “Come over if it’s truly that urgent. I’ll let her sleep till then. Tigh out.”

“You shouldn’t have pushed,” Ilia said accusingly. “Haven’t you heard him? Uhura’s had trouble sleeping, too!”

“That’s exactly what concerns me,” Jedda replied thoughtfully. “Ei’lia, that cloud – it wasn’t anything we’ve seen before. The readings, the energy patterns. I’m sure there is some connection between them and everyone’s trouble to sleep. Something must have interfered with our natural biorhythm, or else people _could_ sleep, and _you_ weren’t pregnant. I think I’ll have to ask the Vulcans how _they’ve_ reacted to it.”

“You can do that tomorrow,” Ilia replied. “Right now, we need to go to Uhura. You had Tigh get her out of bed already, so don’t make her wait for us.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
They didn’t have to ring the bell at Uhura’s quarters; Tigh was already waiting for them in the open door. He was wearing a simple, short-sleeved white robe, the parallel folds of which made him look taller, more impressing. In truth, he was even shorter than Jedda, who was middle-height at best if compared with the average human. But Tigh’s shortness was easily forgotten due to the military economics of his movements and the natural authority with which he carried himself. Besides, next to the equally small Uhura he didn’t really need to be exceptionally tall.

“I hope for you that this _is_ important,” he didn’t even try hiding his annoyance, but the Deltans didn’t blame him for that. They both were aware of the deep, honest passion that existed between these two humans; a passion rarely seen among their species and worth cherishing, even because it was so rare. It was only natural that Tigh would want to protect his partner, by all means necessary. Every Deltan would do the same.

“Believe me, Colonel, we wouldn’t be here in this ungodly time,” Ilia replied quietly.

Tigh hesitated for a moment, but then he stepped to the side, so that they could enter. There was complete darkness within, save from the small lamp that represented the souls of their forebears glowing dimly in the bedroom. Tigh sat down on the low, flat couch that was their bed and gently shook the bare shoulder of his partner under the zebra skin blanket.

“Uhura… wake up, _amuntu_ …”

Waking up seemed a long process for Uhura. She opened her heavy eyelids for a moment and grumbled; but the she recognized Tigh’s voice, and the Deltans could almost physically feel the love bond strengthening between them.

“Imaro…” Uhura murmured sleepily. “What is it?”

“Lieutenant Ilia wants to speak with you,” Tigh replied, hugging her close, with blanket and all. “She says it’s important. I couldn’t shake them off; I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Uhura reluctantly extricated herself from his arms and wrapped the blanket around her body. “Can you get us a drink while I get dressed?”

“You leave the choice of drinks to me?” Tigh teased. “You are a brave woman indeed!”

Uhura laughed quietly and snuggled against him for a moment.

“I’ve got the utmost trust in your abilities, son of the sun,” she declared. “Get us something good, will you?”

“Only the best is good for you, heart of flame,” Tigh replied, standing in front of her to shield her from prying eyes while getting dressed. Not that the two Deltans would care either way; but his own people had a more rigid attitude when it came to etiquette.

“You are getting more beautiful with each passing day, do you know that?” he murmured.

“If you say so,” Uhura laughed, now fully awake. She slipped into a long, scarlet robe and went over to the living room, where the Deltans were waiting. “Well, Lieutenant Ilia, what can I do for you?”

“I’ve got a problem,” Ilia replied quietly, “and Chris Chapel meant you might be able to offer me some useful advice.”

“Why don’t we all get seated, so that you can tell me everything from the beginning?” Uhura suggested.

The Deltans accepted wordlessly. Colonel Tigh joined them in a moment, carrying a tray with a portly bottle and four drinking cups, and placing everything on the coffee table.

“This is the first _ambrosa_ made on Earth by my people,” he said. “One of the few gifts we could offer our human brethren.”

The _ambrosa_ – the legendary drink of the Old Colonies – was deceivingly sweet, yet spicy at the same time, and had an almost electric buzz. It loosened one’s tongue quite easily, and soon Ilia was describing her dilemma to Uhura in minute detail.

“I don’t know where this child has come,” she said. “It should not be here at all – yet it is. And if I choose to have it, there will be… complications. For both of us.”

“There will,” Uhura agreed. “When I got permission to keep my son on board, the _Enterprise_ was still under Captain Pike’s command; and besides, I had the support of Admiral Noguchi, who wanted to use me as a guinea pig for his plan to have a ship’s counselor on every starship. That’s why Captain Pike was a bit more generous with me. In that position, I wouldn’t have belonged to the bridge crew, not directly. It was considered as a position that was not entirely military-related.”

“Are you telling me that the captain might remove me from the bridge, just because I’m pregnant?” Ilia asked in concern. Her work was important for her; and besides, Deltans were considered the best navigators of the entire Federation – she was needed.

Uhura shrugged. “Nobody can foretell how Captain Kirk would react to something unexpected,” she replied, “but if I were you, I wouldn’t put my hopes too high. Patience has never been the captain’s forte; and having to accept the fact that he isn’t twenty anymore hasn’t improved his moods.”

“What should I do then?” Ilia asked helplessly.

“That depends,” Uhura said. “I assume abortion is out of question, isn’t it?”

“Of course it is!” Ilia was deeply insulted. Deltans cherished children, and unless a baby was proved to have some degenerative illness, they were joyfully accepted.

Uhura nodded. “I thought so. Well, if I were you, I’d wait for a while before sharing the good news with the Captain. How long does it take for a Deltan woman to carry a child to term? In standard measures, I mean?”

“About ten months and a half,” Ilia replied. “There are individual differences each time, but that’s the average length.”

“And how long until you’ll begin to show?” Uhura asked.

“Not until the eighth month. Deltan babies develop their mental abilities first,” Ilia explained. “The corporeal development happens in a quickened phase during the last two or three standard months of the pregnancy.”

“Well, in that case you should sit tight and be quiet about it,” Uhura suggested. “You’ll need Doctor M’Benga’s help to watch the process of your pregnancy, but medical personnel falls under doctor-patient confidentiality, so your secret will be safe with them.”

“I know,” Ilia said thoughtfully. “I don’t like the idea of deceiving Captain Kirk, though.”

“Why should you be deceiving him?” Uhura asked. “There’s no regulations that would order you to report your possible pregnancy to your commanding officer, unless you’re about to be sent into a war zone – which you are not, not here. You’re not the only pregnant woman on this ship, and the others haven’t reported their condition yet, either.”

“I understand that,” Ilia said in concern, “but isn’t it a little dishonest?”

“Perhaps a little,” Uhura agreed. “But you want to have this baby, don’t you?”

“Yes, I do,” Ilia said slowly. “The concept of having a child while I’m – while we both are – so young frightens me, but children are considered a gift on Seyalia.”

“Besides, you both want to remain on board, don’t you?” Uhura asked.

“Of course we do,” Jedda answered. “An opportunity like this won’t be offered so soon again, for either of us.”

“In that case, you should be careful with the telling part,” Uhura said. “Nobody can prohibit you having a baby, of course, but the captain still can have you reassigned, if he finds that deep space exploration would be too dangerous for a pregnant woman. Human males often show remarkable inability to understand that pregnancy is _not_ an illness,” she added, shooting a half-mocking glance in Tigh’s direction, who tried to look properly contrite - and failed.

“And you truly believe that Doctor M’Benga would keep my condition secret?” Ilia asked.

Uhura shrugged. “Well, he hasn’t reported Lieutenant Masters, either, and she was already pregnant when she came aboard. Why should he report you? M’Benga is a good man; besides regulations don’t prohibit getting pregnant aboard a starship.”

“It’s just not a welcome thing, as it can cause complications,” Ilia commented. “Am I right?”

“Afraid so,” Uhura said with a rueful smile.

“Well, it would be the best thing to keep the good news to us for starters,” Jedda said. “Our thanks for the piece of advice, Commander Uhura. I regret that we had to wake you in the middle of the night.”

“After so many years of duty aboard of various starships one gets used to such things,” Uhura waved off her concern. “I wish you all the luck of the world.”

The Deltans thanked her again and left. Uhura emptied her cup and yawned.

“Let us return to bed, Imaro,” she said tiredly. “I’ll pay Christine a visit tomorrow, I think – there are certain aspects that make me nervous about this whole thing – but I’m really dead on my feet. Perhaps the _ambrosa_ will help me to sleep a little better.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Ilia, too, could sleep a little in the rest of the night, but her dreams were troubled, and she woke up in an unusually bad mood in the morning. Getting through her duty shift was pure torture – they were lucky that nothing unexpected happened, because her concentration was light years from what it should have been – she could barely wait to go off-duty. 

The beginning of night shift found her in M’Benga’s exobiology lab, and she was eager now to share the details with him. The tall, dark-skinned doctor who originally hailed from South Africa listened carefully to her, then he took her over to the examination room.

“We need to run those additional tests Nurse Chapel was telling you about yesterday,” he explained. “Celinda Louise will help me with them; she’s an experienced lab assistant, with a degree in exobiology. Don’t worry, you’re in good hands here.”

The tests ran their circles in half an hour, and after that M’Benga shepherded both Deltans – as Jedda would never leave Ilia alone in such a situation – into the duty doctor’s office.

“We can wait here until Celinda Louise has analysed the readings we have taken,” he said. “It’s not a very… welcoming place, but you won’t have to wait long. Celinda Louise knows her job.”

Ilia took the duty doctor’s highly uncomfortable seat, the main purpose of which was to keep said doctor awake during night shift and accepted a glass of water from M’Benga. After twenty more minutes or so, Cindy Lou Johnson, M’Benga’s assistant in the exobiology labs, arrived indeed and handed the doctor a PADD.

“The readings are strange, Ben,” she said. Ilia, who knew that M’Benga’s first name was actually Geoffrey, was a little surprised by this, but tried not to show it. It wasn’t her business how they addressed each other, after all.

“In what way?” M’Benga asked.

“Well, it is doubtlessly a female Deltan baby,” Cindy Lou answered, “But her DNA is one hundred per cent identical with that of Lieutenant Ilia.”

“M’Benga shook his head. “That’s impossible.”

“And yet it’s true, doctor,” Cindy Lou pointed at something on the tiny screen of the PADD. “See for yourself. I’ve re-done the analysis three times. The results were always the same.“

"Celinda Louise,“ the doctor said slowly. “If you’re trying to make me believe that we’re dealing with an immaculate conception here, I must point out that I belong to a traditional African cult and therefore can’t be expected to believe in such things. Especially not where a Deltan woman is concerned – don’t take it personal, Lieutenant.”

Ilia didn’t really know how to react to the doctor’s comment. She assumed it had been some kind of joke with which M’Benga tried to hide his shock, but due to the strange nature of human humour she couldn’t be entirely sure. The gentle Creole face of Nurse Johnson, however, remained deadly serious.

“I wish it were a joke, Ben, I truly do. Unfortunately, it isn’t one. And it isn’t even all there is.”

“Isn’t it? Well, what else have you found out?” M’Benga asked. 

Cindy Lou took a deep breath, as if bracing herself for that which was to come. “Last night, the tests of Nurse Chapel showed a foetus of about six weeks old.”

“I know,” M’Benga said. “What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing… only that _this_ foetus, the one we’ve examined an hour ago, is on a level of development a six _months_ old Deltan baby would be.”

“Impossible!” M’Benga said.

“Theoretically, this pregnancy wouldn’t even be possible to begin with,” Cindy Lou pointed out calmly. “And yet it is real - and it already begins to _show_.”

M’Benga and Jedda looked involuntarily at Ilia’s abdomen that had, indeed, begun to swell gently under the waistline of the medical scrub she was wearing for the examination. M’Benga shook his head in concern.

“Is there a problem, doctor?” Ilia asked worriedly.

“Well, no,” M’Benga replied. “The baby is completely healthy - save for the fact that it shouldn’t exist in the first place.”

“Well,” Jedda commented dryly, “this solves the question whether we should tell Captain Kirk right now or not.”

M’Benga nodded. “Afraid so. I’d love to help you to keep both the child and your jobs, but… please, don’t misunderstand me, Lieutenant, but this baby could mean a security hazard for the entire ship.”

“ _My_ baby?” Ilia asked incredulously. M’Benga nodded again.

“Yes, Lieutenant. A baby that shouldn’t exist, that apparently originates from its mother only, and that develops at such an unnatural speed – something with a child like this is certainly wrong.”

“But you’ve just told me that my baby is completely healthy!” Ilia protested.

“I have, and it is so. But this unnatural pregnancy could be a new, dangerous illness that might spread among the other women on board. Besides, we can’t know if the baby will be still all right tomorrow… or in which state it will be born. I’m truly sorry, Lieutenant, but I’ll have to isolate you… and Doctor Adzhin-Dall, too.”

“How could a possible illness of pregnant women endanger Jedda?” Ilia frowned.

The doctor shrugged his slightly stooped shoulders. “I don’t know. It most likely can’t. But he can still be a carrier. Or the illness could manifest in him in a much more dramatic way… _if_ it is an illness to begin with. Whatever it is, I have a responsibility for the well-being of the crew… and the Captain has the right to be informed about any possible risks.”

“I understand,” Ilia said in defeat. “When are you going to isolate us?”

“Right away,” M’Benga said firmly. “We’ve go several isolation rooms, directly behind the labs, for exactly such cases. You’ll better stay right here, Lieutenant.”

“Of course, doctor, if you think it’s necessary.”

“I regret to say, but it is. Celinda Louise,” the doctor turned to his assistant, “I want Doctor Adzhin-Dall in Isolation Room #2 within ten minutes. And we’ll have to call for a consilium in Doctor McCoy’s conference room, as soon as possible.”

“Do you want me to order a decontamination protocol?” Cindy Lou asked. M’Benga nodded.

“Yes, that would be a good idea. All rooms in which Lieutenant Ilia has been in the last forty-eight hours ought to be decontaminated… just to be on the safe side. In the meantime, I’ll inform Doctor McCoy and call the captain to Sickbay. It seems that we’re dealing with a serious situation here.”

“All right, Ben,” Cindy Lou Johnson smiled at the frightened Deltan navigator. “Come with me, Lieutenant. I’ll take you to your isolation room. Doctor Adzhin-Dall can come right with us. Since you’ve both been exposed to… to whatever this is, you can stay together.”

Slightly reassured that she wouldn’t have to be completely isolated from her partner’s presence – which was a frightening perspective for a Deltan – Ilia followed her out of the doctor’s office.


	5. Irska

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of the dialogue contains rephrased lines from the original script, meant for Phase II of TOS.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
CHAPTER 05 – IRSKA**

Captain Kirk wasn’t overjoyed by the happy news – to put it mildly. Having Deltans on board was a… risky thing to begin with; having a _pregnant_ Deltan woman on board could only complicate things even more. 

Of course, he couldn’t demand from Ilia to abort the baby, especially not in such a relatively advanced phase of the pregnancy. But he’d have been grateful for a chance to set the two Deltans off on the next best Starbase. On Starbase 13, for example, where there were supposed to make a stop anyway, to collect the still absent members of the crew – among others Lieutenant Arex, the reliable Edosian navigator, by whom he didn’t have to fear similar surprises.

“Considering the wide range of symptoms shown by various crewmembers, it can be assumed that the encounter with the mysterious cloud a few days ago has something to do with Lieutenant Ilia’s accelerated pregnancy,” Dr. M’Benga explained calmly. “We’ve isolated her, just to be on the safe side. We can’t foretell what other complications to expect, so we’re having her under constant surveillance.”

“And you are really sure that Doctor Adzhin-Dall is _not_ the father of this baby,” Kirk tried to clarify things.

M’Benga shrugged. “To be honest, Captan… I haven’t got the faintest idea. It _is_ possible, of course, that the so far unknown nature of the cloud has turned Lieutenant Ilia’s fertility cycle upside down... or sped it up. In that case, however, the baby would have inherited half of her genetic matter from Doctor Adzhinn-Dall – which is _not_ the case.”

“Have you checked the results, Bones?” Kirk asked his old friend. 

McCoy gave him a reproving look. “M’Benga is our multispecies-expert, Jim. He’s already forgotten more about extraterrestrial genetics than I’ll ever be able to learn. If he says the baby’s genetic matter comes from the mother alone, you can bet your a… your _armchair_ that he’s right. He knows his stuff.”

“If you’re in doubt about my competence, Captain, then you should perhaps ask for another xenobiologist by Starfleet Medical,” M’Benga said slowly and with an annoyed glint in his dark eyes. “As a rule, my diagnosis doesn’t get second-guessed.”

“Relax, Ben,” Uhura said soothingly. “No-one questions your professional competence.”

“Well, it looks like some do, at least from where I’m standing,” M’Benga replied languidly, “and I don’t happen to share your limitless loyalty, Uhura. There are other ships - and name-worthy planetary research facilities - where my work would be better valued.”

To be honest, the reaction of the otherwise so calm and quiet doctor surprised Kirk a little. Although M’Benga had already served aboard the _Enterprise_ during their previous five-year-mission, their ways rarely crossed. Kirk had always considered him to be McCoy’s more or less competent sidekick, instead of seeing him as the well-known, ambitious scientist that he actually was.

“You’d always be more than welcome on New-Libra, Doctor,” Tigh said smoothly. “The Elders still haven’t given up hope that you might change your mind and take over the leading of our new research institute, you know.”

“At the moment, I don’t wish to make any binding choices, Colonel,” the xenobiologist replied calmly, “but I thank you nonetheless. I might come back to the offer later.”

Tigh nodded. “Whenever it fits you,” he said. “Our people could learn so much from you!”

“Perhaps we should focus on the problem currently at our hands,” McCoy intervened placatingly. “We’ll have more than enough to do with _that_ right now.”

“The baby could turn out a security risk,” Lieutenant Chekov warned unhappily.

Ever since promoted to lead the security department, the young Russian had been concerned ceaselessly; as if he’d been afraid that he wouldn’t be able to live up to the expectations and the trust of his commanding officer. Not even the successful mission on Thimsel could put his self-doubts at rest, as that particular mission had largely been carried out by Lieutenant Garrovick. Perhaps if he’d been able to prove himself with some heroic rescue mission, Chekov’s self-confidence would have been strengthened a bit. Unfortunately for him – and fortunately for everyone else – so far no such action had been necessary.

M’Benga, however, didn’t seem to share the security chief’s concerns.

“I don’t see any particular risk here, Mr Chekov,” he said with a shrug. “Yes, there _is_ the possibility of a contamination, but so far we’ve got things under control. Lieutenant Ilia is under constant surveillance on one of the isolation rooms, next to my lab. We’ve even put Doctor Adzhin-Dall under quarantine, as a pre-emptive measure. Beyond that, I’ve ordered a Level One decontamination protocol in every single room Lieutenant Ilia might have entered in the last seventy-two standard hours. We’ve also checked all people she had met during that time – and found nothing. Fortunately, the Lieutenant hasn’t been either on the rec deck or in the officer’s lounge during the last four days; that would have complicated our work enormously.”

Chekov shook his head. “You don’t understand, Doc,” he said. “I’m not speaking of medical risks; I don’t understand enough about _those_ , so I’m leaving them to you. But you’ve said yourself that ve aren’t dealing vith an _ordinary_ Deltan child. You can’t tell me vhere this baby has come from; and you can’t explain vhy is it groving vith Varp speed.”

“It’s still Ilia’s baby, though,” Uhura said quietly and with emphasis. “If she wants to have this baby, it’s within her right.”

She looked at Lieutenant M’Botabwe for support, and the JAG officer nodded in agreement.

“If ve allow Lieutenant Ilia to have this baby, ve’ll set free a potentially dangerous alien life-form aboard the _Enterprise_ ,” Chekov said grimly, not backing off an inch. “A life-form vhose true intentions ve can’t even guess.”

“Starfleet Regulations don’t forbid it female crewmembers to become pregnant and have their babies aboard a starship,” Uhura replied, every bit as stubbornly; but she was looking at Kirk, not at Chekov. “You can’t force Lieutenant Ilia to terminate this pregnancy; especially as everything seems to be all right with the baby.”

“Aside from the fact that it’s origins are unknown and it grovs at Varp speed,” Chekov commented.

“That’s not a contagious illness,” Lieutenant M’Botabwe said. “Captain, I’ve studied previous precedences; even a woman whose baby had been diagnosed with _Vegan chorionmenengitis_ was allowed to give birth to the child.”

“ _Vegan chorionmenengitis_ is a vell-known illness, against vhich efficient vacciantion has been developed,” Chekov countered. “Ve have no idea vhat this baby might have, though – or _vhat_ it is in the first place.”

“According to the diagnostic instruments, it’s a female Deltan baby,” M’Benga repeated. “In theory, it would be even possible that the cloud induced a spontaneous cloning process by Lieutenant Ilia. That would explain why the baby only has the mother’s genetic material.”

“The cloning process usually damages the genetic material, though,” McCoy argued.

M’Benga nodded. “The cloning process that _we know_ does indeed. And even if it would explain the baby’s origins, it does _not_ explain why she grows with such unnatural speed.”

“When can we expect the baby to be delivered?” Chief DiFalco, representing navigation in Ilia’s absence, asked.

“By the current speed of her development, within two days,” M’Benga answered.

“Well, in that case we won’t have to wait too long for an answer,” Kirk shrugged. “I wish we’d reach Starbase 13 before, but since we can’t, we’ll have to deal with the problem ourselves. Lieutenant Chekov, I want two security guards posted in front of that isolation room.”

“Aye, _Keptin_ ,” the Russian nodded with grim determination.

“Is that truly necessary?” M’Benga asked, more than a little taken aback. “It’s an unborn baby, Captain, not a Denebian slime devil.”

“A baby that has already caused us a few surprises no ordinary babies present, as a rule,” Kirk replied. “I’m not gonna take any risks, Doctor. You _will_ tolerate those security guards in Sickbay, whether you like it or not. That’s an order.”

“To be honest, I don’t like it at all, but I can’t go against a direct order, of course,” the doctor replied with very obvious reluctance. “I only hope that Lieutenant Chekov would have at least enough decency to find _female_ guards for the job.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
As one would expect from the big-hearted, slightly sentimental Russian, Chekov _did_ have the decency. Shortly after the debriefing had been adjourned, Martha Landon, one of the yeomen assigned to Security, appeared in front of the isolation room. She was accompanied by Ensign Keiko Tamura, who looked deceivingly like ancient Japanese pen-and-ink drawings but was known to beat adversaries twice her size in unarmed combat.

“I’ve always known that humans are paranoid,” M’Benga murmured, after having watched Ilia’s tossing and turning for a while through the wide glass window of the isolation room, “but this… this goes beyond everything I’ve seen so far. Lieutenant Ilia is frightened enough already as it is; and in her current state, this isn’t helping.”

Ensign Tamura shrugged. “I’m sorry, Doc. Captain’s orders.”

“Have you also been ordered to shoot her, should she look the wrong way?” M’Benga asked icily.

Tamura frowned. “Actually, I haven’t. But I was expressly told not to allow anyone in, aside from you and your staff.”

M’Benga was seriously tempted to roll his eyes in exasperation; fortunately, the years spent in a Vulcan ward had broken him out of such futile habits.

“Let’s hope the child will be born in time,” was all he said, “so that this insanity, too, can have an end, and soon.”

He turned his back to the security guards and walked back into his lab, swearing softly under his breath in Zulu. Since Uhura was still on the bridge, though, and the universal translator wasn’t programmed with African languages, the two young women never learned what he might have said.

Which, considering the circumstances, was probably a good thing. M’Benga rarely lost his calm, but when he did, it usually wasn’t pretty.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***   
**Chief Medical Officer's Log, Stardate:**

**During the last three days Lieutenant Ilia’s pregnancy has gone through the for Deltans normal ten-and-a-half months gestation period. She’s about to give birth, soon. The circumstances of her pregnancy caused us all obvious deep concern as to the nature of the infant. When I addressed her about our concerns, to my surprise, she was actually trying to calm me down, telling me that there’s no reason to worry, as _she_ would be out in just a moment.**

**Of course, we’re all aware of the existence of Deltan telepathy, but I was still surprised that she’d be aware of our concern, instead of her own pain. In fact, she doesn’t seem to be in pain at all, which is unusual, even for Deltans, who…**

Seeing Nurse Johnson approach his office with a worried face, Dr. McCoy paused the recording of his official log.

“Yes, Cindy Lou, what is it?”

“I think you’d better come to Isolation Room #2, doctor,” the Jamaican woman replied. “Doctor M’Benga is only inches away from losing control completely.”

 _That_ sounded almost as unlikely as if she’d reported that Lieutenant Xon had got into a bloody fight with someone over a portion of rare steak. Understandably enough, McCoy dropped everything and ran to the isolation area, to see what caused his usually so unshakable colleague to lose his legendary calm.

The situation he found wasn’t encouraging. In the open door of Isolation Room #2 stood Lieutenant Ling from security, with a phaser in one hand and with a medical tricorder in the other one, trying to approach the delivery table, a bit unsure of what to do. He _did_ have a qualification as a field medic, so at least the tricorder was more or less justified.

On the other side of the door, however, stood Dr. M’Benga, already in sterile gear to deliver Ilia’s baby. His arms crossed, he was blocking Ling’s way, with _over my dead body_ clearly written in his thunderous face – a feeling that the chief medical officer of the _Enterprise_ was sharing to a hundred per cent.

“What are you doing here?” McCoy asked Ling angrily. “Haven’t you heard that the child Lieutenant Ilia is carrying has been identified as a female humanoid? She poses no apparent danger to the security of this vessel!”

The handsome young Asian officer shrugged sheepishly. “I’m truly sorry, Doc. I’m just carrying out Captain Kirk’s orders.”

“Not in _my_ Sickbay, you don’t!” McCoy, whose blood pressure shot much easier skywards than M’Benga’s, fumed. “You know as well as I do that according to regulations, I outrank everyone in medical matters – even if the captain happens to disagree. Get out of here!”

Ling shifted his weight uncomfortably. “I’ve got my orders, Doc…”

“Out!” McCoy hissed, with such dark fury on his usually friendly face that Ling found it wiser to back off. The chief medical officer _did_ outrank even the captain in medical matters, after all.

McCoy took several deep, calming breaths and turned to Christine Chapel, who was just entering the isolation room, carrying sponges and sterilized dressings for the labour.

“Christine, call the bridge for me.”

Such things weren’t exactly part of Chapel’s duties, of course. But she knew all too well how much her boss hated the completely re-vamped comm system… so she switched on the intercom for him.

“Kirk here,” the captain’s voice came. “What’s the problem, doctor?”

McCoy stepped closer to the bulkhead, gave the still unfamiliar comm unit a deeply suspicious look, then he said indignantly. “The problem is, _Captain_ , that my Sickbay is overrun by Chekov’s armed gorillas. Can’t we let a pregnant woman have her child in peace?”

“Bones,” Kirk replied in a condescending manner that would have driven people a lot more patient than the head doctor up the bulkheads, “a security officer’s presence is normal procedure under these abnormal circumstances. We _have_ to take all precautions we can think of.”

“I don’t care about _circumstances_ ,” McCoy riposted sharply. “All I care about is that nothing happens here that would endanger Ilia’s life… or that of her baby. So see that it doesn’t happen. McCoy out.”

With that, the connection was broken abruptly. Kirk swore softly under his breath and glanced around the bridge crew. Each person seemed to be busy with his or her work – yet their faces mirrored definite discomfort. Xon was the only exception; he peered into his hooded scanner stony-faced, but the rigid carriage of his narrow back suggested disapproval.

Decker, on the other hand, looked at the captain with open accusation, not hiding at all the disagreement he was feeling. Kirk rolled his eyes.

“What are you glaring at me like that, Number One?” he asked, unable to shake off the uncomfortable feeling that perhaps he ought to explain himself. “I’m all for motherhood, but surely I don’t have to remind you we don’t know _what_ impregnated Ilia. Or _why_. Or how was it possible in the first place.”

“I doubt it that a newly born creature, humanoid or not, could pose any genuine threat to us… _sir_ ,” Decker replied dryly.

“Can you guarantee that, Mr. Decker?” Kirk asked with deceiving calmness.

Decker shook his head slowly. “No, sir. But for a child to be born with a phaser levelled at her head doesn’t guarantee it, either.”

In the sudden, unpleasant silence everyone could hear all too clearly Sulu’s _sotto voce_ comment to relief navigator DiFalco. “A good point, don’t you think?”

Fortunately for the chief helmsman – after all, it’s said in Starfleet that every good helmsman has a great amount of luck – at the same time the intercom came alive again.

“McCoy to bridge,” the dry, acerbic voice of the chief medical officer said. “You can relax, _Captain_. It’s just a baby. And, in case you’re interested, it was an easy delivery, even for a Deltan.”

And McCoy, who only addressed Kirk with by his military rank if he was truly mad at him for something, dragged M’Benga with him into the focus of the camera. In the large, dark hands of the younger doctor, like in some mahogany cradle, a fragile, alabaster-skinned baby lay. Large indigo eyes looked with angel-like serenity from a tiny face, and the small head was covered with smooth, dark red hair.

Everyone, even Xon watched the tiny fairy on their respective screens with awe – she was so very beautiful. The faces of Kirk and Chekov, however, also showed concern. In the deep silence, they could hear via intercom Nurse Johnson ask Ilia if she’d already thought about a name for the baby.

“I’m going to call her Irska,” the Deltan woman answered. “After her father.”

“… after its _father_?” M’Benga repeated in confusion. “But we’ve thought…”

“ _Her_ father, Doctor,” Ilia corrected. “Irska translates ‘pure light’ in our particular dialect of Deltan.”

“A fitting name,” the still invisible Nurse Johnson commented, “as you’re positively glowing with love for your child.”

“For which reason we should leave them alone now,” McCoy intervened. “Easy delivery or not, they both need to rest.”

“I told you that you needn’t have to worry,” Ilia said with a smile in her voice. “Deltans always know…”

“Don’t patronize me, young woman,” McCoy replied sternly. “You know very well that this was no ordinary delivery. For which reason we’re closing this channel now and do some preliminary tests.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
The connection was broken again, and the bridge officers returned to their duties, even though their minds clearly weren’t at it. 

“Captain,” Uhura said quietly, and Kirk swiveled around with his chair. “Will Ilia be able to keep the baby if it’s normal?”

Kirk sighed and frowned. “Commander, I wouldn’t call an immaculate conception followed by a three day pregnancy, resulting in a fully developed child _normal_. Frankly, I haven’t got a clue what to do with Irska. In any case, we’ll take her to Starbase 13 and hand her over to the local medical scientists. They can then decide in peace what to do with her.”

Xon rose from his pleace at Science Station One and stepped up to the command chair, as if he didn’t want the others to hear what he was about to say.

“Respectfully, Captain, I’d ask you to bear in mind that regardless of what you decide, there is no stronger bond than that between a Deltan mother and her child,” he warned his commanding officer. “In ancient times, protecting their offspring Deltan women had been known to slay _Gnuta_ -beasts five times their size with their bare hands.”

Kirk rolled his eyes. “I’m aware of the Deltan mother-child relationship, Mr. Xon.”

The look that the Vulcan gave him as an answer was highly doubtful, but Xon was wise enough not to voice his doubts – at least not yet.

“I must point out, however, that you must also take the possible reaction of DDr. Adzhin-Dall into consideration,” he said. “Deltan men are morally obliged to protect the offspring of their partners, even if those children weren’t fathered by them.”

“A Deltan would hardly pose a challenge to our security officers,” Kirk waved off his concern.

Xon gave him his best Vulcan eyebrow. “Don’t be fooled by the fragile elegance of a Deltan, Captain,” he said. “Deltan education includes a thorough training in various martial arts. The average Deltan knows at least six different ways to kill someone without using any weapons.”

“Do you consider yourself something of an historian, Lieutenant?” Kirk asked with exaggerated friendliness.

The young Vulcan tilted his head to the side. “No, sir. But I did grow up on a scientific colony.”

He accepted the general giggling that followed his words with the usual Vulcan lack of understanding. While humans tended to find the simplest bits of information so amusing was beyond him.

“Captain,” Uhura swivelled his seat to Kirk, “Dr. McCoy would like a word with you. Private, if possible. Preferably now.”

“Tell him I’m on my way,” Kirk waved Decker to the command chair. “You have the bridge, Number One.”

“Aye, sir,” Decker took the command chair with a natural ease, as if he’d been born to occupy it.

Considering the person from whom he’d inherited his leading abilities, he perhaps had been indeed.


	6. Complications

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of the dialogue contains rephrased lines from the original script, meant for Phase II of TOS.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
CHAPTER 06 – COMPLICATIONS  
**  
Reaching Sickbay, Kirk saw in surprise that the two Deltans had already been released from isolation. Right now, they were sitting in the examination room, Ilia doing what almost all mothers do with a newborn child. She was examining every little detail of the baby to make sure the infant was perfect. She counted the toes, inspected the tiny ears, bent the rubbery knees with great love… it seemed she couldn’t overcome her wonder over the child.

Jedda was sitting next to her, with one hand resting gently on Ilia’s knee and smiling at mother and child, but otherwise didn’t interfere with Ilia’s actions. Dr. M’Benga stood in front of them, checking their vitals with a medical tricorder and talking to them in his usual, grave manner. Neither of them spotted the captain and his chief medical officer watching them through an observation window.

“Come with me, Jim,” McCoy grabbed the arm of his friend and commanding officer and dragged Kirk into his office. Once there, he took out a bottle of Saurian brandy from some secret recess of his cupboard and poured them both a generous portion.

Kirk frowned. “Is something wrong, Bones?”

“Define _wrong_ ,” McCoy raised his glass, admired the nice amber colour of his drink for a moment, then swallowed it at once. “I’ve got the results of the preliminary tests on Ilia’s baby... and let me tell you, we took every test we could think of.”

“And?” Kirk asked impatiently.

McCoy shrugged. “And we’re completely perplex, Jim. Up till now we were sure that we’re dealing with a Deltan child. Right from the beginning, her DNA was identical with that of Lieutenant Ilia.”

“And now isn’t?” Kirk looked at his old friend suspiciously. What McCoy had just told him was impossible… to say it _very_ carefully.

McCoy sighed. “The DNA has mutated… right now, the child checks out as human, in almost every respect.”

“No Deltan characteristics?” Kirk asked, truly baffled.

McCoy shook his head. “No physiological ones. She’s even got hair, for God’s sake!“

“There _is_ a Deltan subspecies with hair,” Kirk pointed out.

“Yes, but they’re not very numerous, and nobody in Ilia’s or Jedda’s bloodline came from that minority,” McCoy replied. “The truly incredible thing is, though, how fast she’s growing – even faster now than in Ilia’s womb. By human standards her rate of growth is a little more than a year per twenty-four hour period. I don’t know how she’s doing it. Her metabolism appears normal, and she isn’t eating nearly enough to sustain _that_.”

Kirk needed a good three minutes – and another two glasses of brandy – to fully digest the medical ramifications.

“So, what sort of precautions do you suggest?” he finally asked. “What would happen if I had them separated until we reach Starbase 13?”

McCoy stared at his commanding officer as if the captain had suddenly sprouted horns and cleaved feet.

“In my opinion, that would be a tragic mistake,” he said after a tense pause. “Ilia would stop at nothing to get her back. “Frankly, I’m amazed that you’d even consider it. Are you out of your mind?”

“What I’m considering is the safety of the _Enterprise_ and her crew,” Kirk replied, feeling a little hostile himself, because honestly, his chief medical officer could have looked at things a little less sentimentally and a little more pragmatically. “All we know about the child is that it was placed in Ilia’s body, without her consent, by an unknown alien life-form. So forgive me if I ask myself _why_?”

McCoy shrugged. “It might be unusual,” he admitted, “but it’s not altogether unique for a species to reproduce by depositing eggs in a host – without consent.”

“Exactly,” Kirk jumped at this. “And in nearly every case, the life-forms reproducing in that manner are parasitical.”

He let the implications of this sink in, but McCoy’s mind was clearly elsewhere. He studied the readouts on his tricorder tight-lipped. Kirk waited impatiently. He knew that pressing his friend wouldn’t help.

“Let me set your mind at rest, _Captain_ ,” the doctor finally said in a bitter tone. “There’s something I haven’t told you yet about Ilia’s baby… I don’t think she’ll live out the week…”

“Why not?” Kirk asked in suspicion.

“She was born with an abnormally high white blood cell count,” McCoy replied glumly, “and it’s been steadily increasing.“ Seeing the question in Kirk’s eyes, he explained, “Leukaemia – and the routine cancer drugs seem to have no effect.”

Kirk shook his head, shocked. “I always thought modern medicine has beaten cancer a long time ago.”

“So did I… until today,” the doctor spread his thin arms as if in apology; then he added gravely. “In my almost thirty years as a practicing doctor I’ve learned one thing, Jim: no illness has ever been defeated for good. Given the right circumstances, every single one of them can resurface again. It’s sad, but it can’t be changed. Unfortunately.”

“I see,” Kirk bit his thumbnail for a while, which (presumably) helped him to think. “Does Ilia know…?”

McCoy shook his head. “I didn’t have the heart to tell her.”

“Good,” Kirk said. “Don’t. Not yet.“

“I’m sorry, Jim, but it’s not your decision… not even mine,” McCoy said slowly. “M’Benga is Ilia’s doctor; he must decide when to tell her the truth.”

“Best would be: not at all,” Kirk suggested.

“You seem to forget something, _Captain_ ,” the doctor’s face, deeply lined with exhaustion, reddened with anger. “All of us who’re serving in this section have sworn an oath. It’s called the Hippocratic one; perhaps you’ve already heard about it? Our duty is primarily to help our patients; and _no-one_ , not even Counter-Admiral Nogura could force us to overcome this absolute priority. Neither can you. After all those years you ought to know _that_ , actually.”

Kirk would have liked to keep arguing, but you knew it would lead to nothing. Once McCoy began to refer to the Hippocratic Oath, not even a Tholian invasion could have diverted him from his chosen path.

Their fruitless argument was interrupted by the ship’s intercom.

“Captain Kirk, please report to the bridge,” Uhura’s voice said with her usual, unshakable competence. “Long-range sensors have detected an alien object eighteen hundred light minutes off the starboard bow. It’s heading directly toward us with high speed.”

“Ask Mr. Decker how long it might take until that thing catches up with us,” Kirk ordered.

“Approximately six hours, forty minutes, three point six four seconds,” Xon answered in Decker’s stead. “Of course this is only a rough estimate, sir.”

McCoy suppressed a giggle.

“We’ll take it, Lieutenant,” Kirk replied with forced seriousness. “Number One, Alpha Shift will be relieved within moments – send the senior officers to the briefing room. Oh, and go to yellow alert… just in case. I’m on my way.”

“Aye-aye, sir,” Decker replied. “Bridge out.”

Where Kirk caught the next best turbolift to get to Deck Seven where the briefing room was situated, on the bridge Lieutenant Spinelli, currently on duty at the control station of Engineering, slowly turned his chair a hundred and eighty degrees. This enabled him to look directly at Xon at Science Station One.

“Excuse me the question, Lieutenant, but… since when do Vulcans lower themselves to rough estimates?”

Xon looked back over his shoulder. With his slightly curly hair and his large, pointed ears, he seemed definitely faun-like in this moment.

“I have only tried to accommodate to the general way of human thinking,” he said in such a grave manner that Uhura nearly screamed with forcibly suppressed laughter. “Although I must admit that such an accommodation could lead to blatantly incorrect and disturbingly unscientific conclusions.”

He ignored the outbreak of laughter around him with the patience of a saint and turned back to his instruments again.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
In the meantime Dr. M’Benga had decided to release Ilia from Sickbay.

“I see no reason to keep you here,” he said, back to his calm, friendly manners, “as long as you appear here with your child once a day, so that I can examine the little one. Neither of you are contagious, and aside from the fact that Irska shouldn’t exist in the first place, I can’t see anything unusual.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” Ilia smiled at him, discreetly ignoring the fact that the doctor’s dark cheeks were practically glowing with the inevitable hormonal reaction. M’Benga did practice Vulcan bio-control – as far as it was possible for a human – but against Deltan pheromones there was simply no help. “I’ll come back with Irska tomorrow.”

The two Deltans took the red-haired child by the hands – she was already a toddler – and left Sickbay to return to their quarters. 

Christine Chapel looked after them and felt slightly guilty.

“I don’t know, Ben,” she murmured uncomfortably. “Wouldn’t it be our duty as her doctors to tell Ilia the truth?”

“Perhaps,” M’Benga washed his hands with the disinfectant gel with mechanical efficiency. “But I see it as my humane duty to leave her at least a couple of days while she can be a mother and savour the time with her child.”

Chapel looked at him in surprise. “You amaze me again and again, Doctor. I thought the years you spent on Vulcan made you every bit as… indifferent as true Vulcans are.”

M’Benga frowned. “Who told you Vulcans were indifferent?” he asked. “True, they don’t show their emotions openly. It’s a matter of cultural behaviour… and I must say that after one had to endure a ship full of hysterical Terrans for years, the so-called Vulcan indifference can be rather… refreshing.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Kirk reached the briefing room, followed by the yellow alert klaxons and lights. His senior staff arrived only moments later, and they all took their usual seats around the long table. 

“Put the sensor input onto the main viewer, Mr. Xon,” the captain ordered.

The Vulcan obeyed, and for a moment, they all watched the alien object hovering on the big screen in silence. At first sight, it appeared to be nothing more than a huge cylinder with short, also cylindrical extensions near both ends.

“That’s the best image I can offer at the moment,” Xon said apologetically, “and we are at maximum magnification. The object is still too far away to make out any details.”

“Any sign of hostility?” Kirk asked Chekov.

“No, sir,” the security chief replied.

“Do we have any sensor readings from within?” Kirk asked.

“Sensors indicate no known life-forms, Captain,” Xon answered carefully, but it was clear to anyone that there was something he was reluctant to tell them. 

Which in itself was extremely unusual for a Vulcan.

“It sounds as though you’re hedging your bet, Mr. Xon,” Kirk said. “Do you _think_ there may be someone on board?”

“Sir, the sensors indicate only a hollow tri-titanium shell surrounding a field of dense radiation of the same type as that contained in the cloud we encountered four nights ago,” Xon replied in a somewhat circumvent manner.

“In other worlds: the same night Ilia’s child was conceived,” Kirk said darkly.

“Exactly, sir,” Xon answered. “The shell duplicates the alloy of our hull perfectly, but there’s no machinery of any kind on board – yet it appears to have no difficulty whatever in paralleling our course.”

“How can that be?” Kirk asked.

“By all laws of physics as _we_ know them, Captain, it cannot be,” Xon replied. “Yet it is. I suspect our sensors may not be capable of detecting the controlling life form.”

“I see,” Kirk turned to Uhura. “Commander Uhura, open hailing frequencies.”

Uhura stepped to the independent comm unit of the briefing room and threw a few switches. 

“Healing frequencies open, sir,” she reported.

Kirk turned to the comm unit, so that the sensitive microphone would catch his voice. “This is Captain James T. Kirk of the Federation starship _Enterprise_ ,” he said. “Please identify yourself and your intentions.”

They all waited in silence, but nothing happened.

“No response, sir,” Uhura reported - rather unnecessarily, but it was standard procedure.

Decker looked at Kirk. “There must be a connection between that… that _object_ and Ilia’s child, Captain.”

“That,” Kirk glanced at Xon and suppressed a grin, “would be the most _logical_ assumption, Number One.”

Xon ignored the bait with admirable Vulcan stoicism.

“Yes, sir,” Decker said,” but it doesn’t tell us why that thing is out there or what it wants.”

“Somehow,” Kirk said dryly, “I have the feeling that we’ll learn it earlier than we want. Keep the object under constant surveillance, Mr. Chekov. If it changes its course, blinks or coughs – I want to know it in the same second.”

“Aye-aye, sir,” Chekov replied crisply and gave the main viewer a deeply suspicious look.

Pavel Andreievich hated surprises and didn’t trust them a bit.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
“I’m so glad the time of isolation is over,” Jedda commented, programming the food-synthesizer of their quarters to produce something akin to a traditional Deltan meal; not that the flavour would be the same, of course, at least not for the refined Deltan sense of taste. “I was beginning to feel like a lab rat.”

“Humans – even well-meaning and educated humans like Doctor M’Benga – are unable to understand what it means for Deltans to be cut off of everyone,” Ilia sighed in understanding. “It was hard enough to leave our partners and the children Zinaida and Verai gifted upon the family behind on Seyalia… being shut into a terrarium was almost too much for me. It is time for us to return to work.”

Jedda raised a hairless eyebrow. “Do you believe Captain Kirk would let you?” he asked doubtfully.

Ilia shrugged and gave him a decidedly sultry smile. “I can be very… _persuasive_ if I choose to.”

“Oh, I know that,” Jedda grinned back at her. “But let us have a few days for ourselves first, shall we?” By the speed this little one is growing, we’re going to have a very short time to become a family, I’m afraid.”

There was hidden sadness in his voice. Ilia glanced up to him; their eyes met and their minds became one. Deltans didn’t need the complicated rituals Vulcans used to achieve mind-meld – by them, it happened naturally, without any effort; and they used this ability all the time, because that way they could avoid the painful misunderstandings so often caused by the highly inadequate spoken language.

Yes, they both had the feeling that Irska would not stay with them for very long – the circumstances of her conception and her birth had been too unusual for that – and they already mourned the inevitable loss.

“I’ll try to get a subspace connection to Seyalia,” Jedda finally said. “The family ought to be informed about what has happened.”

“That might take a while,” Ilia warned. “We won’t get to send it as a priority message; and as far as we are on the outskirts of Federation territory, subspace messages need days to reach the Deltan system.”

“One more reason to send the message as soon as possible,” Jedda said. “Kirim would be overjoyed to learn about our new child; and besides, I want to send the data we’ve gathered about the cloud so far to Zinaida. She’d have reached Starbase 13 in the meantime, and at least she’ll have an interesting problem to think about while she’s waiting for our arrival.”

“You’re right, of course,” Ilia smiled at him; then she sat down with her daughter on the bed, holding and stroking the toddler lovingly. Their eyes met and locked for what seemed a very long time. Hovering at the border of their connection, Jedda could feel rather than hear their mental exchange through Ilia’s mind. It was very different from the telepathic discussions Deltans had all the time – and yet not completely alien to him.

After a while, Ilia gently took the tiny hand of her daughter and guided it to her own forehead.

“Mother,” she said slowly, clearly in the northern dialect of modern Deltan; the dialect their family spoke at home. “Mother.”

“Mother,” the child repeated in her clear little voice, looking at her serenely.

Ilia nodded and moved Irska’s hand to the child’s own forehead. “Irska,” she said. “Irska. My precious little Irska.”

Jedda found that it was, at once, beautiful and most upsetting to watch them building and deepening their connection on a level where he’d never be able to follow. That was a level where only mother and child existed. Not even the natural father could reach that depth.

He wondered if it would break Ilia’s heart beyond healing when Irska had to leave them.


	7. Interlude #1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Commodore Stone appeared in the episode “Court-Martial”. His first name and his career are entirely my doing. Commander Giotto appeared in “The Devil in the Dark”. Again, first name and background are my invention.
> 
> The ships mentioned in this chapter are borrowed from “The Star Trek Technical Manual”, where they’re only listed as examples for the various ship classes. Lt. Cheung is an original character, “played” by Dustin Nguyen.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
INTERLUDE #1**

Like those of his friend Captain Jon Daily, the ancestors of Commodore Elijah Stone had been slaves, taken from Africa to Louisiana to work on the cotton fields. There was an age difference of roughly twelve years between the two men, which wasn’t much in the twenty-third century, but – although they had chosen similar careers – it would have been hard to find two more different people, given the same circumstances.

Elijah Stone would never have been satisfied with commanding a mere freighter; not even such a first class freighter as the _Astral Queen_. He’d been drawn to the great unknown, to danger and adventure since his early childhood. He was an intelligent, ambitious man, and those traits enabled him to build a career few others had within Starfleet. From year to year, Starfleet required more and more personnel, yet – as Stone had said a few years ago to James T. Kirk himself – only one man out of a million was capable of what they did for a living: to be the commanding officer of a starship.

Stone had started his career in the security department of the USS _Kongo_ – one of the very first heavy cruisers. After four years of exemplary service, he was sent to command school, absolving which he’d been assigned to the USS _Tonti_ , a small, _Hermes_ -class scout, as second officer. Spending several years with the border patrol, he’d been promoted to lieutenant commander and became the executive officer of the destroyer USS _Hannibal_. 

After the retirement of Captain Ramirez, Stone had sat in the command chair of the same ship for another eleven years. He’d fought small yet bitter battles against Klingon raiders and the pirates of Orion. His tactical skills had become so legendary that even now, decades later, he was still known by his nickname “Hannibal” all over the Fleet.

When the building of new Starbases had begun in a grand scale, Starfleet Command had finally realised that on these lonely outposts skilled, experienced officers were at least as much needed as on board of the great exploratory vessels – if not even more. And so, since the border patrols had needed some fresh blood anyway, the USS _Hannibal_ had been pulled out of border duty at the Klingon Neutral Zone in 2263, and Captain Stone got promoted and reassigned as the commander of Starbase 11.

This planetary base was situated on Minerva, an asteroid roughly the size of Mars Solis. During the five-year-leadership of Elijah Stone, it developed so far that it had become the most important spaceport as well as the administrative centre of the entire sector.

However, administrative duties weren’t exactly Stone’s favourites, so he’d asked for reassignment to somewhere where he could put his abilities to better use. He’d lead courses of advanced tactical training at Starfleet Academy for two years, before being promoted to the commanding officer of the newest, farthest Federation outpost: Starbase 13. Beyond that new, vast space station, there were only the unexplored depths of unknown space, stretching into infinity.

Starbase 13 (Naval Constructions Contract S-1) was an _Ournal_ -class space station; a series of bases whose development had begun after the Gorn-crisis and first commissioned barely two years ago. Starfleet-slang simply called it spacedock, but – although it seemed to glitter before the black canvas of deeps space like some old-fashioned, blown glass Christmas ornament – in truth it was a semi-independent colony, with its own industry, agriculture based on hydroponics, and extensive research labs.

Starfleet Command had learned from past mistakes and placed a fortress into this lonely border area that was well capable of protecting itself – and by doing so the Federation, too. The space station was more than four kilometres long and two and a half kilometres in diameter. It had forty phaser banks, with two cannons each, twenty megaphasers and four double-tubed photorp launchers. Megaphasers were the newest achievements of Federation weapons technology; their range came close to twenty-five million kilometres, which was ten times the range of the traditional phasers; although they consumed a great deal of energy, they counted as the best defensive weapons to time.

Since Starbase 13 was supposed to protect a large, unexplored area secured for the Federation by intragalactic contracts, it also had a fleet of 43 heavy and 32 light attack vessels, which made up the border patrol. Not to mention the good old USS _Hannibal_ , which – using his prerogatives – Stone had almost completely rebuilt in the shipyards of Antares and brought there with him to the end of the known world. 

Civilian traffic between the base and the neighbouring uninhabited and lifeless mining planets was managed by thousand five hundred shuttles, from the small, two-man travelling pods through Workbee-class freighters and aquatic shuttles until the brand new courier ships that were now equipped with limited Warp-capability. The drydock of the station could take in thirty-eight heavy cruisers at the same time – at least in theory.

At first sight, it might seem a bit of an overkill to concentrate so much power in a sector where there wasn’t any other colony yet. But Starbase 13 had been conceived as a starting point for the deep space exploratory vessels sent out to map still unknown territories of the Galaxy – aside from providing a home base for the border patrol and to co-ordinate the mining on the lifeless planets. It was a military outpost, a scientific research station, a shipyard, a mining colony and a well-equipped resource base for future research ships, all rolled into one.

Cartographing the sector had barely begun, though, and so the station was only manned by regular Starfleet personnel. Which meant a handsome number of people anyway. Regulations foresaw personnel of one hundred thousand for an _Ournal_ -class space station; beyond those, there were eight thousand civilian scientists and engineers, working in the numerous science labs or on the automated mining stations of the nearby planets. The base still could take in twelve thousand more inhabitants, in case a smaller base or newly founded colony needed evacuation.

When he’d glimpsed Starbase 13 from the bridge of the _Hannibal_ for the first time, Elijah Stone had known instantly that he’d found the pace he’d been looking for all his life. This was the task he’d been prepared through experiences gathered on all his previous posts… and he’d arrived in his prime, when his strength and his abilities had been at their best, ready and willing to face any challenge deep space might throw at him. An added bonus of the job was that he could choose his senior staff; and what was more, his requests had top priority, even before those of the commanding officers of the heavy cruisers.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Two days after the unsettling report of the _Astral Queen_ , Commodore Stone found himself in the mushroom-shaped module of the space station marked as Section A1 on the blueprints. This was the upper one of nine connected modules, where the administrative centre, with all its computers, information centres and offices, was situated. One of those offices was his own seat of command, officially marked as operations centre and nicknamed Ops, with the complex equipment co-ordinating the subspace communications relays in the anteroom.

When he entered Ops, it was largely deserted, save for the duty staff on night watch. Like the majority of the senior officers, Stone worked in Alpha Shift, which started at 08.00 of the simulated standard day, but as usual, he arrived half an hour earlier.

“Any news from the _Enterprise_ yet?” he asked for the umpteenth time. For the last two days, the answer had always been negative.

His operations officer, Lieutenant Cheung, shook his head, his thick, smooth ink-black hair barely moving with the gesture. The young man was the son of a human (supposedly Chinese) father and an Orion mother - one of the green savages at that, even though all Federation geneticists swore that such a thing was biologically impossible. His unique heritage resulted in fairly exotic looks and – what was the important part for Stone – in the ability to work ungodly long hours, without losing his concentration.

“Negative, sir,” he replied. “And what’s worse, we seem to have been cut off of general communication with the rest of the Federation, too. We have the most powerful communications towers ever built by Federation technology; the comm-stations of a heavy cruiser are peanuts compared with our systems – and we still can’t punch through Sector 625.1.”

“Possible reasons?” Stone asked.

Cheung shrugged. “I don’t know, sir. Something very strange is going on in that sector; something not even our mainframe could figure out – and it’s anything but second-hand hardware.”

“Whatever it is, by blocking our communication it effectively renders us blind, deaf and mute,” Stone murmured. “Which means – we’re on our own.”

Cheung nodded. His dark eyes, with those slitted, yellow Orion pupils, narrowed in concentration as he was watching the monitors. “Unfortunately, that’s so, Commodore.”

“What about the _Astral Queen_?” Stone asked. “Could you at least reach them?”

“Yes, sir,” Cheung seemed glad to have at least _some_ good news. “I’ve just spoken with Captain Daily a few minutes ago. They’ve fallen back from top travelling speed to Warp 5 because the _starliner_ couldn’t take the strain any longer. The captain thinks, though, that they’d be able to keep their scheduled ETA.”

“Let’s hope it’ll be enough,” Stone murmured in concern. A freighter, with an attached _starliner_ was so much more vulnerable than a well-armed heavy cruiser. No matter how shrewd and experienced Jon Daily might be, he had a risky job. “Very well, Mr. Cheung. I’m going to the security deck to discuss potential defensive measures with Commander Giotto. Keep me informed, should anything unexpected happen.”

“Aye-aye, sir,” and with that, Cheung was completely focused on his work again, as if his commanding officer weren’t even present any longer. Stone had come to value the young man’s discretion on Minerva already; that was why he insisted to take him to Starbase 13, and Nguyen Bin Cheung, not the least intimidated by the challenges of an unknown border area, readily left the settled-down comfort of Minerva behind for his sake.

Officers like that couldn't be valued highly enough.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Salvatore Giotto, the chief of security on Starbase 13, was cut of a different – although at least as hard – wood. Born on the Vega IX colony, he’d grown up under constant danger. As a result, although still in his early forties, he was already elegantly greying, which women usually found _very_ attractive. He was also a well-built, ruggedly handsome man, and at first Stone had been vaguely uncomfortable with him, fearing that he might have inherited some aging Don Juan from the captain of the _Lexington_ who had become the governor of Mantilles in the meantime.

Fortunately, he soon learned that Giotto was a married man – he’d married a fellow officer, Rita diFalco on board the _Enterprise_ before his reassignment to the _Lexington_ – and didn’t even think of endangering his marriage with meaningless adventures. And on his post he was one of the best who’d ever served under Stone’s command; the commodore counted himself lucky for being able to get him.

The office of the security chief was situated on the same level as the operations centre; Stone only called it security deck because he was used to it from his years as a starship captain. In the inside, the office looked very much like his own: the walls covered with instrumental boards and viewscreens, watched by junior officers. Only inside, in Giotto’s private haven, could one discover traces of personal preferences.

Stone kept the yeoman on duty from announcing him with a wave of his hand and marched straight into the security chief’s private office.

“We’ve got a problem, Commander,” he said. “In fact, we’ve got several problems. Subspace communication has just collapsed without forewarning; aside from the _Astral Queen_ , we can’t reach anyone. I think it’s time to work out a defence plan, just in case, since at the moment we can’t expect any help from outside.”

Giotto looked up from his monitor that was displaying some complex tactical simulation concerning the defence of the space station.

“I’ve re-checked the sensor readings four times so far, sir,” he replied calmly. “There’s no indication of cloaked ships of any sort within sensor range. Which means we can rule out the Romulans… _and_ the Klingons.”

“That doesn’t make me any happier,” Stone said, the lines of his dark, worried face hardening. “I can deal with Klingons or Romulans; if nothing else helps, we can fight them and even beat them. I prefer a known enemy to some mysterious, unknown power. What would be _your_ guess, Sal?”

Giotto thought about the problem for a few moments. He’d spent his entire – highly successful – career in Security; scientific theories weren’t exactly his forte. But he wasn’t stupid, despite the clichés concerning security officers; at least he always knew whom to ask if he didn’t have the answers himself.

“Well, sir, I’m no scientist, of course. So I took the freedom to consult Lieutenant Boma about our problem. Or should I perhaps say _Doctor_ Boma? The man is considered an ace in his field, after all.”

“Boma?” Stone only needed to search his memory for a moment. “Oh yes, the head astrophysicist of the _Enterprise_ ; the one waiting here for being picked up by his ship. And what is _he_ thinking?”

“He meant we’re dealing with a natural phenomenon,” Giotto said. “With an electromagnetic energy field of some sort… or a cloud of highly charged plasma.”

“Which means… what exactly?” Stone asked with a frown.

Giotto shrugged. “I haven’t got a clue what it means, sir. What’s more: Doctor Boma doesn’t have a clue, either. He says he hasn’t seen anything like this in his life, and he has seen a lot. He asked me for permission to use one of our light shuttles, in order to take a closer look at the phenomenon.”

“What did you answer him?” Stone asked.

Giotto grinned. “That I’m gonna ask _you_ , what else?”

“Do you think Lieutenant Boma could manage to cross the distance with a light shuttle and get back in one piece?” Stone said doubtfully. “We’re close to the rand of the sector, but not _that_ close.”

“He only has to fly to the Custodian Array,” Giotto pointed out. “That one consists of the most powerful subspace telescopes ever built by Federation technology. It would provide Doctor Boma with the necessary data to analyse the phenomenon and perhaps find a way to restore subspace communications.”

“Can’t he use the Array from here?” Stone asked. “Astrometrics has direct access to the telescopes via remote control, haven’t they?”

Giotto shook his head. “That was my first question, sir, but apparently, he can’t. The telescopes of the Array are aimed at the unexplored depths of space – you can say they’re looking in the _opposite_ direction, and Astrometrics only has remote access to the data, not to the guiding systems. They have built-in safeties against outside manipulation. So, if we want them to watch Sector 625.1…”

“…someone has to reprogram the Array from the basics on,” Stone finished for him. “Is Lieutenant Boma qualified to do so?”

“According to his file, he’s at least as good at his field of expertise as Mr. Spock used to be,” Giotto said with obvious respect. “I think he can do it.”

Stone nodded. “Very well. Tell him he can take one of the new Warp-shuttles… assuming he can find a pilot who volunteers. I can’t order duty personnel to go with him – we’re not supposed to tinker with the Array.”

“I’ll fly the shuttle myself,” Giotto offered. “Doctor Boma is a qualified pilot, but he can’t fly the shuttle and reprogram the Array at the same time. Besides, I can afford a reprimand in my file – it’s been spotless so far.”

“Not if you ever want a reassignment to some more comfortable post, you can’t,” Stone warned.

Giotto shrugged again. “Well, in that case let’s hope that Doctor Boma is truly as qualified as his file says. But we have to take the risk. We need to learn everything about this phenomenon that’s there to learn. And since we’re apparently cut off of the rest of the Federation, we can’t use the usual channels to gain more information.”

“All right,” Stone said. “Have you considered eventual defensive actions?”

“Yes, sir,” Giotto rose from behind his desk and put the schematics of the space station onto the viewer on the wall. The schematics showed the construction of the Starbase, with the explanation of the abbreviations listed next to the computer-animated image-

A1 - Administration   
D1 - Drydock (Light Craft Platforms)   
H2 - Habitat (Recreation Area)   
H1 - Habitat (Botanical Section)   
H3 - Habitat (Chemical Storage Null Gravity Chamber)   
R2 - Research (Laboratories)   
R1 - Research (Particle Accelerator Chamber)   
C1 - Communication (Comm. Resonant Amplification Chamber)   
C2 - C3 - Communication Towers 

“I’ve talked to our engineers about the possible strengthening of our shields,” he continued. Their output of eighty-six billion watts is more than impressive; nonetheless it can happen that it won’t be enough. Chief Su’chakay told me, though, that she had developed a method to re-route all energy reserves to the shield generators in a nick of time, if necessary.”

“Do you have an engineering problem? Ask a Centaurian,” Stone quoted the old Starfleet saying in relief. “Something else, Sal… are our patrols battle-ready, just in case we’re _not_ dealing with a natural phenomenon after all?”

“One hundred per cent, sir,” Giotto called up the tactical display of the border patrols on the main screen. “As you can see, I’ve dispatched four squadrons to these asteroids, here… here… here… and here. The attack vessels are sitting in optimal position to intercept any intruding forces coming from the neighbouring sector, equipped with all necessary resources, including mobile shelters on the surface of the asteroids. I also intend to dispatch another squadron to escort Doctor Boma’s shuttle to the Custodian Array… and to stay there after he’s done, to secure the Array.”

“You’re right, of course,” Stone nodded. “We can’t afford to lose the subspace telescopes. They’re of crucial importance for future deep space exploration. Losing them would cause a setback of decades – with disastrous results.”

“I know, sir,” Giotto sighed. “I still believe, though, that Doctor Boma is right. He’s always very careful with his theories. Scientists who’ve occupied an academy seat as he used to do are mindful of their reputation. He wouldn’t risk his good name with wild theories that lack any solid basis.”

“I don’t doubt _that_ ,” Stone said. “Nonetheless, we need to keep an open mind for other possibilities.”

“That we do, sir,” Giotto promised, “at least within the possibilities currently at our disposal.”

Stone nodded glumly. His deeply lined face mirrored exhaustion. People usually said that his youthful appearance belied his grey hair – this time it wasn’t true. Right now, he did look exactly his sixty-five years – or more.

“Sir,” Giotto said quietly, “do you think that the _Enterprise_ … I mean, is it possible that she’s coming out of this unharmed?”

Stone gave him a compassionate look. He’d lost his family when the Romulans had destroyed all Federation monitoring stations along the Neutral Zone and still hadn’t got over his loss completely. He could understand the concerns of the younger man all too well.

“You’ve served on board that ship for five years, Sal,” he replied gently. “You tell me.”

“Captain Kirk likes to say that fate protects fools, small children and starships called _Enterprise_ ,” Giotto said slowly. “And we always believed it, even though many of our shipmates had to die during dangerous missions. But there’s a time, for men or for ships, when they simply run out of luck. I wish Rita had waited her for her ship, like Doctor Boma or Lieutenant Moreau, but she flat out refused to do so. She’s a relief navigator, she told me, she would be needed from day one.”

Stone laid a compassionate hand upon the younger man’s shoulder.

“Sal, such thoughts lead to nowhere; stop driving yourself crazy! Neither of us can outrun his or her fate. Besides,” he asked pessimistically, “What makes you think your wife would be better off here?”

“Perhaps she wouldn’t,” Giotto replied bitterly. “But at least we’d be _together_. I’m beginning to doubt that these subspace relationships could truly work within Starfleet. I mean, can it still be called a marriage if we don’t even see each other for months – and then have to die light years apart?”

“It depends,” Stone said thoughtfully. “I believe as long as you both want to _be_ together, it still _is_ a marriage… though perhaps a somewhat troubled one. Why haven’t you asked for a reassignment to the _Enterprise_ , by the way? With your service record, I’m sure Jim Kirk would have taken you in a nanosecond – you’ve already served with him, and he always spoke highly of you.”

“Perhaps,” Giotto said, “but I wanted something more stable this time. I’d been cruising through space for almost twenty years; I felt like settling down for a while. I tried to talk Rita into accepting an assignment here, too, but she isn’t tired of travelling yet.”

He pushed the intercom button and asked his deputy to take over for him.

“I’ll go and talk to Doctor Boma, then,” he said when the junior-lieutenant had taken his seat, “so that we can schedule our trip to the Custodian Array as soon as possible.”

Stone nodded. “Do it. We don’t have much time. And rotate the squadrons dispatched to the asteroids in regular intervals, or else they’ll grow lazy from the lack of stimulation.”

“Will do,” Giotto stepped aside to allow his commanding officer to go through the door first. “And should any message come from the _Enterprise_ in the meantime…”

“I’ll tell you within the minute,” Stone promised and stepped into the turbolift cabin.


	8. Emergencies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of the dialogue contains rephrased lines from the original script, meant for Phase II of TOS.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
CHAPTER 07 – EMERGENCIES**

**Captain’s Log, Stardate 6154.6  
James T. Kirk recording**

**A week has passed since the birth of Lieutenant Ilia’s child and the appearance of the strange alien cylinder, which is catching up with us gradually. Despite an ever increasing white blood cell count, Irska remains healthy. Her stage of development is roughly that of an eight-year-old child. We remain unable to make contact with the alien cylinder or to determine why, or indeed how, it is following us…  
**  
Kirk trailed off and paused the recording. He glanced over to Chekov’s station, where Lieutenant Garrovick was sitting, as Chekov himself had temporarily replaced Ilia as chief navigator. It must have called up old memories, as he looked fairly pleased with his current station.

“Is that thing in transporter range yet, Mr. Garrovick?” Kirk asked.

Stephen Garrovick shook his head. “No, Captain. Mr. Xon has estimated that it would get close enough in… erm… two hours, seven minutes and twenty-seven point three eight seconds. Roughly estimated, of course.”

“Sounds like a Vulcan estimate to me,” Sulu grinned and everyone laughed. Even Kirk was hard-pressed _not_ to join them. 

They had thought Spock had been bad? Well, Xon had turned out a lot worse when it came to Vulcan mannerisms.

“Well, inform me at the moment we can beam over a landing party,” he said, suppressing a grin.

Garrovick nodded dutifully. “Aye-aye, sir.”

And then there was nothing else to do than to sit and wait. Again.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
At the same time, in the living room of their quarters on Deck Four, Ilia and her daughter were dancing. Without the occasional piece of Federation-issue hardware – like the computer screens, the food synthesizer or the intercom unit – one would never think such a room could be situated aboard a Federation starship. It delighted the senses too much for that, with all the exotic plants filling the shelves and corners, the soft, textured material covering the walls and the deep, richly saturated colours everywhere. On a shelf, an ancient-looking, bronze incense burner stood, shaped like the head of a _Gnuta_ -beast, exhaling scented smoke.

Jedda sat on one of the floor-cushions, cross-legged, playing on a cross-stringed Deltan instrument that looked – to the human eye anyway – like something between a lyre and a harp. The music he was playing sounded something like modern jazz – again, to the human ear – but with underlying complex harmonies and resonances audible for Deltans alone.

To this music mother and child were dancing, in the typical Deltan manner that was at he same time sensual and innocent, serene and joyous. Some of their movements had a vague reminiscence to _tai chi,_ just smoother, more languid and peaceful. They whirled about, diaphanous flowing robes billowing, and ended in a crescendo of laughter and waving arms, their fingertips occasionally brushing Jedda’s body as lightly as thistle flakes blowing in the wind.

Jedda finished the melody, and the two fell onto the floor cushions, laughing breathlessly. It took them a few moments to catch their breath; then Ilia grew serious and turned to her daughter.

“Today, Jedda and I will both resume our duties,” she said. “That means we’ll be apart for a time.”

“Can’t I work with you?” Irska asked, disappointment clearly written in her sweet face. 

Ilia reached out to caress her hair.

“No,” she said gently but firmly. “My work is _my_ work. It is important that you spend some time alone now and become what you are to be. That is what all Deltan children do at your age.”

Irska seemed uncertain – even somewhat frightened – by that perspective. Ilia kept stroking her hair and, setting his music instrument aside, Jedda joined them, helping the mother soothe the child, as all Deltan parents would do.

“But what will I do?” Irska finally asked.

“Learn,” Ilia replied seriously. “Do whatever you want to do. See if you can discover joyfulness alone. Once you have achieved that, you need never fear rejection.”

She embraced the child lovingly, who snuggled up to her, basking in the warmth of her acceptance and love. Jedda embraced mother and child, closing the circle and melding with them in a mental bond stronger than any non-Deltans could even imagine.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Kirk was listening to Xon’s report concerning the alien cylinder in the briefing room when Ilia entered, wearing her uniform again.

“I would like permission to resume my duties, Captain,” she said simply, without preamble.

Kirk frowned. He hadn’t expected such a request and was now uncertain how to react.

“What about your daughter?” he asked. 

“Learning how to have a good relationship,” Ilia replied,

“With whom?” Kirk asked, baffled, hair-raising tales of Deltan customs emerging in his mind. 

But Ilia’s answer surprised him even more than it would if those tales had turned out true.

“With herself, sir,” she said.

“Which is the beginning of all good relationships,” Xon supplied.

Ilia nodded. “True. One must spend time alone to get to know oneself before being ready to share who one is with others.”

Kirk shook his head. All this psychological mumbo-jumbo between the members of two diagonally opposite telepathic species sounded complete rubbish to him. He wasn’t surprised, though, that Xon seemed rather interested in the whole topic – after all, he was a scientist and he was young. And scientific curiosity was the only emotion (if it could be called one to begin with) not only tolerated but actively supported by Vulcan society.

Kirk, however, didn’t feel like listening to a lengthy conversation about self-exploration, so he decided to snip it in the bud.

“Ilia, what are your plans for yourself and your daughter?” he asked, cutting straight to the core.

“Plans, Captain?” Ilia echoed, clearly not understanding what he meant. “I have none. She’s growing so fast,” she added, a little sadly, “she will not be with me long. I must love her, teach her what I can… and then let her go.”

“Go where?” Xon asked quietly.

“And to do _what_?” Kirk added. “Appearances to the contrary, she’s _not_ human. Nor is she Deltan… or any other life-form we know of. Will she be able to adjust to _that_ aloneness?”

“Captain,” Ilia replied calmly, “she is _my child_. Even if we are physically separated, the bond between us is inseparable. _You_ are more alone at any time that she will be ever capable of feeling.”

“I beg your pardon?” Kirk knew his reaction was somewhat too sharp, but Ilia’s comment had hit a little too close to home. He was a lonely man. Most starship captains were.

“That’s the simple truth, Captain,” Ilia replied. “Where she goes and what she does must be left up to her. In any case, the connection between us will remain.”

“But if she were to pose some danger to...” Kirk began, but Ilia interrupted him.

“She does _not_ ,” she replied forcefully. "She _could_ not pose danger to anyone.”

“Captain,” Xon intervened quietly, “there is no point in trying to pursue the subject. Lieutenant Ilia is apparently fully convinced of her statement.”

“I wish I could share her certainty,” Kirk muttered; then he turned back to Ilia. “Have you any idea at all in what way your daughter might be connected with that cylinder out there?”

Ilia shook her head apologetically. “No, Captain. I am sorry, but I do not.”

“Very well, Lieutenant, thank you,” Kirk sighed. “You may return to your duties, starting tomorrow.”

“Thank you, sir,” Ilia inclined her head gracefully, then turned around and left.

Kirk looked after her doubtfully. “I hope I won’t regret my decision,” he muttered.

Xon raised a sceptical eyebrow.

“Regret is a fruitless emotion, Captain,” he commented.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Chief Engineer Montgomery Scott had spent both Alpha and Beta Shifts with performing a complete check on the Warp drive. Even though he’d overseen the complete refitting of the _Enterprise_ , the Warp engines hadn’t been tested under full pressure yet, and until _that_ happened, there would always remain a rest of uncertainty in Scott. 

Uncertainty whether his beloved machines would react the way one could rightfully expect of them.

It was therefore understandable that he reacted a wee bit annoyed when the intercom tore him out of the first sleep he’d got in nineteen hours in the middle of the night… well, in his case, shortly before Gamma Shift was over. Especially if said dream had featured a certain Lieutenant Mira Romaine whom he hadn’t seen for a very long time.

“I’m sorry, chief,” Nahar Singh apologised profoundly, “but Lieutenant Jaeger wants you to see this before he decides to drag the captain out of his bed.”

“While draggin' _me_ out of **my** bed isnae a problem at all, apparently,” Scott grumbled. “Care to tell me what this is supposed to be, lad, or should I play twenty questions with meself on my way down to Engineerin'?”

“Oh,” Singh looked a little sheepishly. “Sorry, chief. It’s the alien cylinder, sir. It’s unexpectedly accelerated during the last hour or so and caught up with us.”

“ _What_?” Scott was widely awake in a second. “Is it doin' anythin'?”

“No, sir,” Singh replied. “Just hovering eighteen hundred metres off the starboard bow… seemingly dead in space.”

“Not as dead as we would like, I’m afraid,” Scott sighed. “All right, lad. Sit tight. I’ll be there in no time. And let the captain rest for the time bein' – we can still wake him up if we’re convinced that there’s any danger. Scott out.”

Despite his concerns, he took a quick shower, knowing he probably wouldn’t have time for one later, put on a clean uniform and stepped into the turbolift, still within ten minutes from Singh’s call. Time management was something every good engineer had to learn early on.

When he reached the bridge, Gamma Shift was nearly over. Xon was already at his post, the unshakably calm Lieutenant Rhada was just about to hand over the helm to Sulu, and apparently Chekov was still filling in for Ilia instead of Chief diFalco. Uhura was in the process of relieving Lieutenant M’Ress from the comm station, although currently they were both staring at the main viewer.

Scott followed their looks and admitted that the view was worth staring at. The huge screen was almost completely filled by the image of a fairly… bizarre object: a long, silvery-white cylinder, with groups of four short, equally cylindrical extensions reaching out of its trunk in symmetrical intervals. The further end of the main cylinder formed a conical shape, and a completely smooth metallic sphere was attached to it by a short joint. Between the short extensions, red and white lights were blinking in no recognisable patterns. The closer, blunt end of the main cylinder seemed smooth, too, although it did have a vague resemblance to the front sensor dish of a starship.

And the whole thing was bloody _big_. Scott’s experienced eye, using the data running along the bottom frame of the main screen as reference, estimated that the smooth metallic sphere alone could have taken in the _Enterprise_ as a whole - and that was the smallest part of the object.

Before he could have voiced his opinion, though, the turbolift door opened again, and Ilia emerged, wearing her uniform, and moved to her bridge position.

“You are relieved, Mr. Chekov,” she said. “Thanks for taking over for me until I’ve prepared my child for the day.”

Chekov smiled at her, a bit dazzled as always in her company; but again, most human males were. 

“It was my pleasure,” he replied, his accent thickening as always when excited about something. “And how is the beautiful Irska today?”

“She’s just marvellous,” Ilia answered with a pleasant smile, but she interrupted herself as Kirk arrived at the bridge, with McCoy in tow, stepping out of the turbolift quickly to survey the situation.

“I thought the captain was still sleeping,” Scott said to Singh.

The Hindu engineer shrugged his bony shoulders. “I thought he was. Of course, we aren’t so far from the beginning of Alpha Shift. He might have caught our conversation.”

“Status report,” Kirk ordered, sitting down in the command chair, quickly vacated by Lieutenant Jaeger.

“I see you’ve allowed Ilia to return to her duties,” McCoy commented quietly, ignoring the short, factual report of Jaeger. Scott perked up his ears – this was a topic that interested him, too.

Kirk nodded and released the duty officer of Gamma Shift with a short “Good work, Lieutenant – dismissed.”

“She came to me last afternoon and expressly asked that she be allowed to resume her station,” he then explained. “And since M’Benga has given her – _and_ her daughter – a clear bill of health, I could hardly find a reason to refuse… or at least sidestep the question.”

“Hmmm…” McCoy scratched his chin, which was a sure sign that something was worrying him. “Did she say anything about Irska?”

Kirk shook his head. “She grows extremely defensive, whenever I’m trying to speak about the child at all. I’ve tried to bring up the possible connection between her daughter and that thing in space, but she promptly denied that there might possibly be any. So I gave her permission to return to the bridge. At least here we can…”

He was interrupted by a soft, urgent buzz - then the klaxons of the intruder alert began to blare. Alarmed, Chekov moved quickly to his weapons/defence station, waving Lieutenant Garrovick out of the way. He studied the readouts and swore fiercely in Russian.

“What’s happening?” Kirk asked sharply.

Xon looked into his hooded viewer, and an eyebrow slowly started to climb up to the very roots of his hair.

“Fascinating,” he murmured. “Something is being beamed aboard from the alien cylinder.”

Kirk mimicked the Vulcan’s non-expression quite well – he’d had enough practice with Spock, after all. “Could you be any more specific, Lieutenant?”

“Certainly, Captain,” as always, Xon managed to miss the barely-veiled irony completely. “It is roughly one cubic centimetre of the dense radiation atmosphere preliminary sensor scans have discovered to be contained in the cylinder.”

Without a further word, he calmly turned back to his console and began making complex computations with the assistance of the computer.

“Why do I have the unhappy feeling that this isn’t a good thing?” Kirk asked rhetorically.

“Experience perhaps?” McCoy suggested. “Can we get a location of that… little present?”

“I’m already working on it, doctor,” Chekov replied, putting on his control screen the structural diagram of the ship with a blinking light, synchronised with the beeping sound, flashing somewhere in the centre of the saucer section.

As he rapidly punched the buttons on his console, the three-dimensional image rotated on various axes until the location of the flashing light was found The code letters 8-L SUPATMOS QLT – 10 FLTR appeared on the bottom of the image, as it zeroed in on the light.

“It’s been beamed to the Number Ten filter in our atmospheric purification system,” Chekov translated for the uninitiated with a concerned expression.

“… _and_ it is giving off emissions,” Xon added, looking up from his calculations.

“What sort of emissions?” Kirk asked.

“At the moment I still do not have the exact sensory data at my disposal, Captain, but if you give me roughly two point eight six minutes to collect additional readings…”

Kirk interrupted the Vulcan. “You can have as many minutes as you want, Lieutenant; as long as I get an answer in the end.”

“Thank you sir. With Dr. McCoy’s permission, I would like to pull in Sickbay as well – assuming that the radiation lab is not used to full capacity with other projects.”

McCoy nodded. “Fine with me. You can have Park. She’s the best, and she’s on emergency duty anyway.”

“Thank you, doctor, I appreciate your help.”

Xon worked like a man obsessed on his console for about two and a half minutes. Then he cross-checked his data with Lieutenant Park, the Tellarite radiation biologist, for another twenty-two seconds. Then he turned back to Kirk.

“The level of radiation poisoning the entire ship through our atmospheric purification system is absolutely lethal, Captain. I suggest an immediate effort to escape. If we put a significant enough distance between us and the cylinder, the energy supplies of this… this _intruder_ might be severed.”

“They _might_?” Kirk didn’t like the sound of that at all.

The Vulcan shrugged, which was as close to getting hysterical for him as any Vulcan could ever get. “This is completely unknown technology, sir. I cannot foretell how the object would react, of course. But flight seems a logical alternative to me.”

Kirk, for his part, hated the mere thought of fleeing, but he didn’t want to take any unnecessary risks, either. Not until they know for sure what they were dealing with.

“Take over the helm, Mr. Sulu,” he ordered, “and initiate evasive maneuvers. Ninety degrees hard to starboard. Warp factor six!”

Sulu slid into his seat, which Lieutenant Rhada vacated in visible relief, and punched it in, while still acknowledging his orders.

“Warp factor six, sir. Ninety degrees hard to starboard, aye.”

“Uhura, switch the main viewer to external view,” Kirk continued.

“External view, aye, sir,” Uhura carried out her orders every bit as calmly and competently as Sulu.

They all could see the _Enterprise_ and the cylinder moving laterally across the huge screen. Abruptly, the _Enterprise_ seemed to veer directly towards them and away from the cylinder. The stars distorted into long, colourful strips as the ship sped up and swiftly swept over the external cameras, set out on independently driven bakes days ago, with the express purpose to monitor the approach of the cylinder… until, a few seconds later, they got out of their range.

“Captain,” Xon replied only moments later, in a toneless voice only an extremely surprised Vulcan was capable of. “The object is still following us.”

“ _What_?!” Kirk exclaimed. “Uhura, heck sensors!”

“Heck sensors, aye,” Uhura affirmed and threw the switch.

The main screen came alive again, now with the images provided by the ship’s own sensors. They could see the cylinder, blunt end forwards, racing after them through subspace with Warp factor six.

“The sphere on the other end, it must be some sort of subspace engine,” Scott was thinking loudly. “Could you shoot it off somehow, Pavel?”

Chekov shook his head unhappily. “For that, I’d need to get a precise shot through the entire length of the cylinder, Meester Scott. Unfortunately, that… that _thing_ is made of collapsed metal. Not even the advanced phaser banks of the _Divine Wind_ would be able to burn through it at once. And a second chance we aren’t likely to get.”

“Well, then we’ll have to be faster,” Kirk shrugged. “Scotty, get down to Engineering. Reroute all available power to the Warp drive; give me everything but minimal life support.”

“Aye-aye, sir,” Scott was already hurrying to the turbolift.

Kirk swivelled his chair towards the helm. “Mr. Sulu, come about a hundred and eighty degrees. Increase speed to Warp eight.”

“Warp eight, aye, sir,” Sulu increased the speed gradually, his broad face displaying even less emotion than Xon’s. He always performed best in life-and-death situations, which was why Kirk had wanted him at the helm during this maneuver. “Warp seven… Warp seven point two... seven point five… seven point eight… Warp eight, sir.”

“Science officer?” Kirk asked.

“The object is still with us,” Xon replied.

“We’ll see,” Kirk said darkly. “Increase speed to Warp nine, Mr. Sulu!”

“Warp nine, aye,” the helmsman replied with unshakable calm, ignoring McCoy’s very vocal protests and the worried looks exchanged between the engineers present on the bridge. “Warp eight point two… eight point five…”

“Warning!" The emotionless female voice of the main computer announced. “External hull is nearing tolerance limits. Structural integrity failing in sixty seconds…”

“Science officer!” Kirk said through gritted teeth.

“We seem unable to shake off the object, Captain.”

“Warning,” the computer repeated. “Tolerance limits reached. Structural integrity failing in thirty seconds.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Scott found his beloved Engineering in a state of controlled chaos. Alarms were sounding; people were hurriedly programming backup systems into operation. Others were engaging manual overrides. A number of technicians, instructed by his right hand, the middle-aged, reliable Mike Cleary, were labouring to cancel alert warning lights on Inertial Guidance and Stability systems.

“Warning,” the computer announced again. “Structural integrity failure in ten seconds.”

Through the open channel to the bridge, they could hear Dr. McCoy’s suddenly very calm voice. “Jim, this is useless. Stand down before we go off like a supernova.”

 _Good old Bones is right, as often_ , Scott thought, stepping up to the comm unit. 

“Captain, we cannae go on maneuverin' at this speed,” he said, more calmly than he felt. A lot more calmly. “You’re puttin’ a critical strain on the inertial guidance and stability system!”

“What can you give me in straight speed, then?” Kirk’s voice asked.

Scott checked his control screen. “Warp nine point two. If you don’t lean on her too long.”

“All right, Scotty,” Kirk’s voice said, followed by a heavy sigh. “Let’s see if she can outrun them. Mr. Sulu, Warp nine point two. Head straight towards Starbase 13 – perhaps we’ll manage to get through an emergency call to them, eventually. Number One, get down to Engineering and see if you can give them a hand.”

“That would be mightily welcome, Captain,” Scott said in relief. Decker, having worked on the refitting of the ship with him the whole time, was the only one who knew the engines as well as he did.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
The _Enterprise_ accelerated and sped away. Heck sensors, their images still showing on the main screen, showed the cylinder falling behind – then it adjusted, gained on the ship and passed to linger on a course slightly ahead of the _Enterprise_. Uhura switched to the front sensor array to show it the others.

Everyone on the bridge was staring at the main viewer or studying instruments, so no one paid attention to the turbolift, as its doors opened with a quiet swoosh. A red-haired girl with deep indigo eyes, about eight or nine years old, stepped out onto the bridge. She was wearing a jewelled headband and the traditional white Deltan tunic, with the high, standing collar and the wide, sweeping sleeves.

Irska looked around, a little worried, then she hurried to her mother, without anyone noticing her presence just yet. Ilia slipped an arm around the child but continued with her work. She didn’t need to _look_ at her daughter; she could send warm feelings and soothing thoughts to Irska through their telepathic link.

“It’s still with us, Captain,” Sulu reported. “Dead ahead… slowing.”

“No point wasting power, then,” Kirk replied grimly. “All engines stop, Mr. Sulu…” he trailed off as he spotted the child with her mother. 

But before he could have reacted, Xon glanced up from his hooded viewer.

“We have an additional problem, Captain,” the Vulcan reported.

“Yes,” Kirk said coldly, looking at Ilia. “Yes, I believe we do.”

The rest of the bridge crew followed his look and stared at mother and child with various degrees of shock, surprise or mild amusement. The only exception was Xon, who left his station and walked up to the command chair.

“Captain, the problem is more serious than we have estimated,” he said. “As you know, a cubic centimetre of radiation was beamed directly into our filtration system. It has already poisoned the air… quite lethal. Unless we initiate a complete decontamination process within twelve hours, we will all be dead due to radiation poisoning.”

Hearing that, Irska moved even closer to her mother, clearly frightened. Understanding, Ilia reached out and stroked the child’s hair in an attempt to calm her down.

“Well, in that case I’d better go back to Sickbay and see if we can brew some kind of serum against the effects of the radiation,” McCoy commented with a crooked smile, already on his way to the turbolift.

Kirk nodded. “Good idea, Bones. Let your people work around the clock. And get this child off my bridge,” he added, annoyance creeping into his voice. “This isn’t a playground!”

Ilia rose from her seat with a stormy face to obey, but Kirk stopped her with a stern gesture.

“Oh no, not _you_ , Lieutenant! If I remember correctly, you wanted to return to your duties. Well, you are on duty now… and you _baby_ doesn’t seem to need a babysitter any longer.”

“I can take her home on my way to Engineering,” Decker offered. “It wouldn’t be a long delay – I can contact Dr. Adzhin-Dall to pick her up from the turbolift.”

Irska looked from captain to executive officer with that intense, unsettlingly mature look of hers… then she apparently decided to trust the younger man. Her small, white hand practically vanished in Decker’s large palm as she followed him into the turbolift cabin.

Kirk rose from the command chair with a weary sigh. His joints ached and the lack of proper sleep was getting to him. Still, he knew this was not the time to take a quick nap. He had some urgent duties, related to the current emergency.

“You’ve got the bridge, Mr. Sulu,” he said. “I’m in my office, should I be needed. I have to prepare some detailed reports for Starfleet Command. In case we're not gonna to make it, they need to know what happened.”


	9. Epidemy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of the dialogue contains rephrased lines from the original script, meant for Phase II of TOS. I know there are different theories about the time of the Vulcan Reformation initiated by Surak. I chose roughly five thousand years, not the least because that is a long enough time for the Romulans to develop a completely different society and a unique way of thinking.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
CHAPTER 08 – EPIDEMY**

**Captain’s Log, Stardate 6157.9  
James T. Kirk recording**

**It has been four hours since our attempt to escape the alien cylinder failed. Our chief medical officer and his assistants have made little success towards finding a cure for the effects of the deadly radiation.**

**The crew is already displaying first symptoms of radiation poisoning, and though they continue to maintain the ship’s routine, many of them have become despondent, hopeless. I can’t blame them, considering that – according to the calculations of our science officer – we have less than eight hours left to live.  
**  
The door buzz sounded haltingly – so haltingly as if it had known who was asking permission to enter. Kirk stopped the recording and called out.

“Enter!”

He’d chosen not to lock the door, in case he’d take a turn to the worse. The crew needed to reach him, no matter what.

Lieutenant Xon, wearing a fresh uniform and as perfectly groomed as always (save for his arrival on board, but that had been a different matter entirely) politely remained in the foyer. In fact he’d barely stepped in far enough for the sliding doors to close behind him.

“You wanted to speak me, Captain?”

“Oh, Lieutenant, good,” Kirk waved him closer and gestured towards the other seat, on the opposite side of his desk, and Xon took it without hurry. “I’d like to discuss our current situation with you.”

Xon folded his long, elegant hands and pressed the tips of his index- and middle fingers together in a gesture of deep concentration that Kirk had seen from Spock many times in the past. The similarities were particularly poignant in this moment, and they made Kirk miss his old friend more than ever.

“Unfortunately, I am unable to offer you any alternatives, Captain,” Xon finally said. “From a scientific point of view, there is literally nothing we could do. This unknown technology is far superior to everything the Federation had ever encountered.”

“Superior even to the Organians?” Kirk asked with a frown. “Or to the Melkots? Or the Medusans?”

“My apologies, Captain,” Xon replied. “I meant technologies that have been used to destroy Federation starships.”

“I see,” Kirk said; not that it would make him any happier. “I assume that you’ve analysed the sensor readings of that cylinder nonetheless, haven't you?”

The young Vulcan nodded. “Of course, Captain. Now that we have it well within sensor range, we could refine our earlier results… not that they would give us any reason for optimism. The outer hull of the cylinder does not only contain tri-titanium; the other main component is collapsed _neutronium_ , and I assume I do not need to explain _you_ of all people what that means.”

“No, you don’t,” Kirk agreed sourly. The memories of the so-called planet-killer, a mile-long, automated weapon of a long dead race that destroyed every planet in its way, with or without inhabitants, and could only be neutralized through the self-sacrifice of Commodore Matt Decker and the destruction of the USS _Constellation_ still haunted his dreams occasionally. “We can’t scan the _inside_ of the object, then?”

“That’s correct, sir,” Xon said. “At least not to a satisfactory level. The only thing we know about it for certain is the deadly potential of radiation it contains – and even that only because of the output”

“What I don’t understand,” Kirk said slowly, “is why the cylinder would kill us slowly and painfully, although it clearly would have the potential to destroy us in an instant.”

Xon thought about the question that obviously hadn’t occurred to him so far.

“Perhaps it does not intend to kill us at all,” he said after twenty-six seconds or so. “Perhaps it is simply studying our reaction to its own atmosphere as a preliminary action to establishing First Contact. Since our scanners cannot fully penetrate its outer hull, we cannot tell for certain what kind of environment is there inside the cylinder; or whether there are any life-forms inhabiting it.”

“Unless all this has something to do with Irska,” Kirk countered. “Could the emissions serve to trigger some sort of metamorphosis in the child?”

About _that_ question Xon pondered almost a full minute. Kirk tried very hard to keep his impatience at bay. He knew from past experience that the Vulcan intellect followed fairly rigid, through logic determined guidelines when examining a problem, step by time-honoured step, and that any interference from his side would only slow the process further down. That was how it had worked with Spock, too, and Spock was, at least, half-human. One could rightfully expect that Xon would follow the method even more rigorously.

“Theoretically, it _is_ possible,” Xon finally said, very carefully – guesswork was _not_ the Vulcan method to answer questions. “She has already gone through _one_ important metamorphosis: from a Deltan foetus to a newborn human baby. Unfortunately, I don not have the necessary empiric facts at my disposal to either affirm or counter this theory.”

“But it _is_ possible, isn’t it?” Kirk insisted.

“Captain, if I have understood anything about the nature of the universe during my studies then it is the fact that in theory, practically _everything_ is possible,” Xon replied, very seriously. “Considering this possibility, however, I believe Doctor McCoy should examine the child again. Perhaps there is something the doctors have overlooked at the first time.”

“Ilia is going to protest heftily,” Kirk commented while contacting Sickbay. “When it comes to her child, she’s always in full defensive mode; and M’Benga will surely support her. But I happen to agree with you, so let’s give it a try.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
As Kirk had assumed, M’Benga didn’t like the idea of any further examinations of Ilia’s child. However, as he looked around in Sickbay, he had to admit that they ought to try everything that _might_ help saving the endangered lives on board.

He briefly considered consulting Dr. McCoy, but the chief medical officer was working feverishly at his laboratory table. Nurse Chapel, whose scientific background excellently enabled her to do this sort of work (she was a doctor of biochemistry, after all), assisted him, removing samples from the centrifuge and preparing them for McCoy to study under the microscope. M’Benga decided not to disturb them and left Sickbay to find Irska.

He contacted Jedda, who was working in his own lab, being drafted to help with the analysis of the deadly emissions, and the Deltan told him that Irska had gone to the rec deck to learn some of the popular games being played there. So the doctor went to the rec room first.

He found an unusually sombre atmosphere there. Small groups of people were talking in subdued voices here and there. A couple of games of three-dimensional chess were going on as well as some other games, played on computer boards, but they seemed to provide little solace to the players. The lights were lower than usual, but even so, M’Benga could see that most people in the room were showing, or starting to show, red splotches on any exposed skin area.

M’Benga discovered Chief Janice Rand, who was talking to Cassiopeia, the host of the rec deck, while probing a red splotch on her cheek… and then hissing in pain. The doctor walked up to them.

“Does it hurt?” he asked in concern.

Rand pulled a face. “Actually, it’s getting worse. But what are you doing here, Ben? Are you making house calls nowadays? I thought Doctor McCoy was strictly against such practices.”

“I’m looking for Irska,” M’Benga explained, impressed by her bravery to make fun of a hopeless situation. She was a tough one. “Have you seen her?”

“She was watching Tonia and Phyllis playing chess, just a minute ago,” Rand gestured vaguely in the direction of Yeomen Barrows and Mears, who were sitting at a nearby table and didn’t show the finished game any particular interest.

“Yes, she was here for a short time,” Tonia Barrows answered to M’Benga’s question. “She wanted to play chess with us, but we didn’t feel like playing any more games.”

Considering that she was a regular favourite of the chess championships of the rec room, that told a lot about her state of mind.

“Especially not with children,” Phyllis Mears added, a little crossly. She was badly splotched, more so than Barrows, and obviously in a great deal of pain.

“You should come to Sickbay, Yeoman,” M’Benga said with mild reproval.

“Yeah, because you guys can help me so much!” Mears scoffed.

Barrows laid a placating hand upon her forehead. “Phyllis… he’s only trying to help,” then she turned back to M’Benga. “I’m sorry, Doc, we have no idea where the girl might be. Although… she did ask about Mr. Scott. How he’s doing, if he’s hurting too much… that sort of thing. Perhaps she decided to pay him a visit.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Chief Engineer Scott was sitting in his office in the largely deserted engineering section, at the library viewer and was reading technical manuals. He’d sent everyone but a few technicians on emergency call home. There wasn’t anything his people could have done; they might as well spend their last few hours in the relative peace of their quarters.

He could have gone back to his quarters as well, of course, but had decided against it. The emptiness of his rooms would only have reminded him of all that he’d lost because of his work: the contact to his sister and her children, Mira, their boys… being there would only have made him even more lonely.

So he’d chosen to take over what would likely be the last duty shift in Engineering – not that _that_ would have been any less lonely. For once, even his beloved technical manuals proved to be of very little solace. He was a practical-minded man, and what practical use would be to be up-to-date with the newest development of Federation technology for a man who was due to die in a couple of hours anyway?

So he was actually relieved when the door opened and Lieutenant Ilia’s lovely little lass came through. The child looked healthy and beautiful and seemed completely unaware of the disaster that was happening all over the ship.

She approached him with a sweet, shy smile and put an arm innocently around him. Unfortunately, she managed to touch a particularly tender spot in the process, and Scott couldn’t help but wince in pain. He tried to hide it from the child but failed miserably.

“I’m sorry,” Irska apologised guiltily. “I didn’t mean to hurt you…”

Scott patted her small hand encouragingly. “It’s all right, lass. Not yer fault. Why aren’t ya with yer mother?”

She smiled at him beautifully, and Scott felt his spirits lift just a little bit. At least the lass wasn’t affected by the radiation – which was really strange, actually, but the chief engineer felt too tired to think about it right now.

“Mother said she felt a need to meditate by herself for an hour,” Irska explained matter-of-factly; perhaps for Deltans, it was the natural thing to do so. “And Jedda is still at work.”

“So ya came to see ol’ Scotty, eh?” Scott asked, feeling really touched. Perhaps he was getting sentimental at his old age, but having the lass here with him really warmed his heart. Irska nodded, and Scott continued with a wink. “Ya know, you’re the only wee lass I’ve ever known who could see the beauty in engineerin’ schematics.”

Irska looked at him intently with those wide, too-serious eyes of hers. “I see beauty in almost everything, Mr. Scott,” she replied cryptically.

Scott studied her reflexively for a moment – it was such an unusual answer from such a young child, but again, _everything_ about Irska was highly unusual – and then smiled at her. She was such a sweet, precious wee bairn.

“See, I nearly forgot,” he said. “I’ve got a present fer ya.”

He was rewarded with a radiant smile as he got up, somewhat painfully, and went to a storage closet where he’d hidden the jewelled headband, similar to the ones Ilia wore in her off-duty time. He got it out of the closet and demonstrated for Irska how it worked.

“See, it’s just like yer mother’s,” he explained, “’cept I made it fer ya so that it could grow as fast as ya do. If ya press this lever in,” he guided the small fingers accordingly, “it will adjust to whatever size ya need.”

Irska laid both hands upon his chest and stood on tiptoes to touch her forehead to his, which was the Deltan way to kiss a casual friend – one with whom the person didn’t want to engage in any sexual activities. It was a gesture of respect and gratitude.

“Oh, Mr. Scott, it’s beautiful,” she whispered, putting the headband onto her head. “Thank you! I won’t take it off ever again!”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
That was how M’Benga found them a few minutes later, beaming at each other happily.

“Here you are, Irska,” the doctor said, relieved. “I was afraid I won’t be able to find you at all. What are you doing here anyway? This is a restricted area; outsiders aren’t supposed to be here. Especially not children,” he added, with a disapproving look in Scott’s direction. “It’s not safe here right now.”

‘I’m visiting Mr. Scott,” Irska told him innocently. “He’s a dear friend. See this?” she showed him the headband. “He made this for me, all by himself; isn’t it beautiful? Just like those of Mother. Wasn’t it nice of him?”

“Very nice indeed,” M’Benga agreed. “But if Mr. Scott is your friend, you’d want him to become healthy again, don’t you?”

Irska touched one of the ugly red splotches on Scott’s face and sighed sadly as the chief engineer winced in pain. He looked at M’Benga and nodded serenely.

“Good,” M’Benga said. “I thought so. Well, Mr. Xon thinks… you do know Mr. Xon, don’t you?”

Irska laughed and put her hands behind her ears as if she’d suddenly grown large, pointed Vulcan ears, too.

“Right, that’s him,” M’Benga nodded. “He’s a Vulcan, and Vulcans are very smart people, you must know. And Mr. Xon thinks that the radiation that makes us all sick _might_ have something to do with you.”

“With _me_?” Irska repeated, clearly more than just a little frightened. “How can that be?”

“We don’t know,” M’Benga admitted. “Not _yet_. But you are the only one who hasn’t shown any sign of illness so far. We’d like to examine you again. Perhaps we can find out what it is that protects you from the ill effects of the radiation.”

“And if you do find this… this _something_ , will you be able to make Mr. Scott whole again?” the girl asked.

M’Benga shrugged helplessly. “To be honest… I have no idea. But it is _possible_. We _hope_ so, at least.”

Irska gave Scott, whose status seemed to deteriorate from minute to minute – he wasn’t a young man anymore, after all – a tender, compassionate look. Then she slid off the chief engineer’s knees and took M’Benga’s hand trustingly.

“Let us go then,” she said.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
The main bridge, too, was deserted, except for Kirk, Xon and Decker, all three of whom were showing advanced symptoms of radiation poisoning. The only difference was that Xon’s copper-based blood caused his splotches to be green rather than red. It was a fairly bizarre sight for the human eye, causing Kirk to ponder about completely irrelevant and silly questions. 

Like the question what an epidemic of measles – or the Vulcan equivalent of them – might look like. Or if Vulcans ever got the measles… or any sort of green rash, for that matter.

With some effort, he shoved the useless thought aside and crossed the bridge from the science stations wearily to settle himself gingerly into the command chair. Once in there, he got the vague feeling that he’d never get up again. He rubbed his eyes and forehead.

“All right,” he said. “Let’s try a different approach. Obviously, there’s some intelligence in control of that thing…” he indicated the cylinder hovering ominously on the main screen.

Xon and Decker glanced at each other quizzically. Well, _Decker_ was puzzled. Xon, as usual, showed no expression.

“I doubt it has any interest in our ship itself,” Decker finally said. “The operation of the cylinder indicates it has no need of our technology. Whoever has built it, they were aeons beyond us, technically.”

“Then why is it trying to kill us?” Kirk repeated the question he’d already asked Xon a few hours earlier. “And why by slowly poisoning our atmosphere? It could finish us much faster if it wanted to.”

“Knowledge,” Xon replied promptly. “As I said, it might be trying to learn how we react to its atmosphere. Or,” he added with a sudden flash,” it might be trying to communicate with us.”

“To… _communicate_?” Kirk repeated doubtfully. “It sure as hell has chosen a… a unique way to do so.”

“It might not realise it’s harming us,” Decker pointed out.

“Or it is a way to find out the weaknesses of humanoid life-forms, in order to prepare the field for an all-out invasion,” Kirk replied glumly.

“Well… that is also a possibility,” Decker admitted reluctantly. If anyone, he ought to know that alien life-forms – or alien technology – weren’t always benevolent.

Their discussion was interrupted as the turbolift door opened and Ilia, wearing the casual white Deltan tunic with the standing collar and sweeping sleeves, entered the bridge. She was wearing a jewelled headband as always when off-duty.

“Captain, you wanted to see me?” she asked.

Kirk nodded. “Where’s your daughter? Doctor M’Benga is looking for her all over the ship.”

“With Mr. Scott, I think,” Ilia answered with a frown. “Why is Doctor M’Benga looking for her? She’s fine. She hasn’t shown any symptoms of radiation poisoning so far.”

“Exactly,” Kirk said with emphasis. “Lieutenant, do you think it’s possible that the change in our atmosphere was intended to trigger some sort of change in Irska?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Ilia said, alarmed.

“The captain may well be right, Lieutenant,” Xon intervened calmly. “Assuming that the girl is, in fact, connected with the alien vessel… which, considering the circumstances of her conception and birth we cannot rule out. Hopefully, when Doctor McCoy re-examines her…”

“Re-examines her __?” Ilia whirled around and glared at Kirk in a decidedly hostile manner. “She has nothing to do with what is happening to us! She is innocent!”

“I want the girl re-examined,” Kirk declared firmly.

“But she might be frightened,” Ilia argued. “She hasn’t even begun to learn about pain and fear!”

The intercom buzzed. Relieved to be able to stop the argument with the enraged mother, even if only for a moment, Kirk answered it.

“Captain, I’ve found Irska in Engineering,” M’Benga’s deep voice reported. “She agreed to go to Sickbay with me – she wants to help her friend, Mr. Scott, if she can.”

“Good work, Doctor,” Kirk said. “I have the feeling that Lieutenant Ilia will be joining you there shortly. Kirk out.”

The news didn’t exactly served to calm Ilia down, of course. On the contrary. Despite her weakened state – she was covered with red splotches, too – she seemed formidable in her righteous anger. So much so that Xon found it advisable to try placating her before she would storm Sickbay to break her child out by sheer force. An enraged Deltan mother was a force of nature – usually a destructive one, if they felt their offspring threatened. Five hundred thousand years of advanced civilization didn’t have a chance against their in-born protective instincts - which was the reason why Deltan Starfleet Officers usually swore an oath of celibacy during their duty periods.

“There is no need for concern, Lieutenant,” the Vulcan said with all the logical calmness he could manage, which, being a Vulcan, was considerable. “Irska will only be examined, that is all. Since she is the only one who has proven immune against the radiation so far, we hope to isolate the blood factor causing her immunity. If we succeed, Doctor McCoy and his people might be able to develop a cure for the crew.”

“In other words: you are using my child as a lab rat!” Ilia snapped, her eyes blazing.

“Irska has _volunteered_ for re-examination,” Xon pointed out with unshakable calm. “And while I understand that you are only trying to protect your child, we cannot accept the certain death of five hundred crewmembers without trying everything to save them.”

“We’ll see,” Ilia replied coldly. “I’ll go and speak with Dr. M’Benga now. He’s our doctor; he’ll understand that it’s his duty to prevent the torturing of my child.”

“No one is going to be tortured, Lieutenant,” the Vulcan explained patiently. “And Doctor M’Benga has accepted the logic of the captain’s decision. He was trained on Vulcan and knows that the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few… or those of a single person.”

“Not even doctors can one trust,” Ilia complained bitterly. “The thought to ask me first never occurred to anyone, did it?”

“Why should it?” Xon asked matter-of-factly. “Would you even have considered to consent?”

“Of course not!” Ilia returned indignantly. “My duty is to protect Irska, not to put her at risk, regardless of the reason.”

“Well, in that case you should not be surprised that nobody asked your permission,” the Vulcan declared logically. “The fact is, Lieutenant: your maternal instincts have rendered you blind for the well-being of everyone else but your child. That could prove dangerous. In your current state of mind you are unfit to perform your regular duties as it could be expected from a Starfleet officer. I shall hand in an official request that you be relieved of duty until the current crisis is solved – assuming, of course, that it _can_ be solved in the first place.”

Ilia stared at him in open-mouthed shock. Until now she had firmly believed that Xon was on her side, as not even the superior Deltan intelligence could completely absorb the fact that Vulcans generally didn’t take _sides_. They were probably the only species in the known universe that always based their judgement on empiric facts and always followed the only path of action that seemed the logical choice for them… even if said action led to personal disadvantages. They might not always be right – and in fact, when they _were_ wrong, that could have disastrous consequences – but after five thousand years of mental conditioning, they were simply incapable of acting any differently.

As a renowned philosopher of Tiburon had once phrased it: to be a Vulcan was not a matter of birth – it was a matter of conviction.

The highly intellectual (and very sensual) Deltans usually looked down at the Spartan lifestyle of Vulcans with pity – or sometimes, like Ilia right now, with utter dismay. But the navigator didn’t get the chance to fully express her displeasure, although it most likely would have been a stellar performance… Deltans rarely stooped to express themselves through moderate language when in true rage. The intercom buzzed again.

“Sickbay to Lieutenant Ilia,” the voice of Nurse Johnson said urgently.

Kirk gestured to Ilia to use the comm unit of the command chair.

“Ilia here,” she answered.

“Lieutenant, you should come down to Sickbay,” Johnson said, a little hesitantly.

Ilia blanched under her angry red splotches. “Is something wrong with Irska?”

“No, she’s fine,” Cindy Lou replied grimly. “But Doctor Adzhin-Dall has just been delivered to the intensive care area. He’s fallen into a coma.”

Ilia stiffened for a moment; then she turned around and stormed from the bridge, without waiting for being dismissed.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Sickbay was still a blur of hectic activity, medical personnel running on coffee and pure adrenaline. Dr. McCoy hadn’t left his lab table for hours and could barely stand upright, not to mention see through the grey veil that seemed to cover his eyes. He stubbornly refused to take a break nonetheless, saying that if they failed now, they’d all have the longest break of eternity, and until _that_ happened, he wanted to be useful.

Chapel prepared a fresh serum sample and had it ready for her boss to look at. McCoy removed the previous sample wearily.

“Which one is this?” he asked, barely recognising his own voice. That surprised him for a moment… then he realised that the radiation had begun to damage his lungs. Both she and Chapel looked wretched. Beyond the natural exhaustion caused by ungodly hours of hard work, there were also red splotches on their faces and arms, and Chapel’s hair had begun to fall out, so she’d covered it with a cap usually worn in the operation room.

“K-one-seven platelets with antiplasm serum,” Chapel replied, thoroughly bedraggled.

McCoy took the sample and slid it into his viewing apparatus. At the same time, the intercom buzzed.

“Is there any progress yet, Bones?” Kirk’s voice asked.

“None,” McCoy answered grimly. “The effects are similar to Beta Ray poisoning; I don’t have to tell you what little success we’ve had curing _that_ … Frankly, Jim, I don’t have much hope.”

“M’Benga is on his way to you with Irska, to be re-examined,” Kirk told him. “I want to know if she’s being affected differently than the rest of us… and if she is, _why_.”

“I’ll let you know,” McCoy promised tiredly.

“Yes, Doctor, please do,” the captain said dryly. “Kirk out.”

McCoy rubbed his eyes – not that it would help much – and gave Chapel a weary look.

“Call Doctor Crémont and ask him to take over here for me,” he said. “I’ll go and take a look at Irska again. Perhaps we have overlooked something at the first time.”

“Don’t you want to examine Doctor Adzhin-Dall first?” Chapel asked.

“What for?” McCoy asked back pessimistically. “We all know what’s wrong with him, don’t we? Nurse Johnson can do for him what little can be done for _anyone_. His only hope is Irska – she’s our all only hope. Because unless I do find something in her blood that might help, we’re all gonna end up like Jedda.”


	10. The Cure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of the dialogue contains rephrased lines from the original script, meant for Phase II of TOS.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
CHAPTER 09 – THE CURE  
**  
Kirk felt tired, weak and frustrated when he broke the connection with sickbay – a condition that apparently didn’t go unnoticed by his executive officer. Decker, although in a fairly wretched shape himself, was eyeing him in concern.

“Captain,” the young man said quietly, “you should return to your quarters and rest. Your condition appears to have deteriorated still further than just an hour ago. Perhaps…”

“Don’t patronise me, Number One!” Kirk interrupted angrily. I might not be thirty anymore, but I’m not a dotard yet!”

“I wasn’t suggesting anything in that direction, sir,” Decker replied calmly. “But you must admit that you’re rather heavily affected by the radiation. You _need_ to rest, if you’re gonna last till a cure is found.”

“I’m needed _here_!” Kirk said stubbornly.

The set of his jaw would have made an older, more experienced officer back off – it was never wise to piss off one’s commanding officer – but Decker was stubborn enough for two on his own. He shook his head.

“No, sir, you’re _not_. There’s nothing any of us could do here, and if all you’re worried about is leaving the bridge unwatched… well, Lieutenant Xon and I can manage on our own. It’s not so as if sitting here and glaring at the main screen hopelessly would require a great deal of command experience.”

He was right, of course, and Kirk knew that all too well. He still felt strangely reluctant to leave the bridge – _his_ bridge – in the care of two such inexperienced greenhorns. He might have stubbornly refused, had Colonel Tigh not entered the bridge in this very moment.

“I can’t sleep and didn’t want to wake up Uhura by walking up and down in our living room,” the ambassador of the New Colonies explained simply. “She’s in a really bad shape and needs her rest. Can I be of any assistance here? I’d prefer to spend my last hours… well, usefully.”

“You don’t look particularly healthy yourself," Kirk commented. Tigh’s dark skin concealed the red splotches better, but he was generously spotted with them nonetheless.

Tigh shrugged. “No, I guess I don’t, but neither of us does. Still, we of the Colonies have a higher tolerance against radiation than our Terran brethren. The star of Kobol once used to be much brighter than Sol… before it died, that is. Even after a millennium or two, we still have some of our natural defences.”

“Not enough of them for Doctor McCoy to develop a serum from your blood, though, I assume,” Xon said.

Tigh shook his head. “Unfortunately not. We were the first ones he’s tested, and I am the one with the highest immunity factor, but it is still not enough. I might last an hour longer than the average human, but that’s all.”

“But you could, in theory, take command of the bridge and react accordingly, should the cylinder change its behaviour, couldn’t you?” Decker asked.

Tigh nodded. “My credentials have been accepted by Starfleet. My rank hasn’t been adapted for diplomatic reasons – I belong to a different military organisation, after all – but yes, I _am_ qualified and empowered to take command of a starship if necessary.”

“Well, Captain,” Decker turned to Kirk in a smugly triumphant manner, “I guess you _can_ retire to your quarters, after all. I’m sure Colonel Tigh can give us a hand, in the unlikely case that anything unexpected would happen.”

Kirk hesitated. He hated the thought of leaving the bridge in the middle of a crisis, but Decker had been right. There was precious little he could do to help anyone – _that_ lay now in McCoy’s hands alone – and he really didn’t feel well.

Besides, with a battle-hardened veteran like Colonel Tigh in charge, he could leave Decker and Xon to their own devices.

“Very well,” he sighed. “Colonel, you have the bridge. Should anything happen…”

“… I’ll alert you at once,” Tigh finished for him with a thin smile. He had served decades as the executive officer of the Battlestar _Galactica_ ; he knew well enough how ship’s commanders thought.

Kirk nodded his thanks and shuffled to the turbolift. His joints ached and he felt weaker than a newborn kitten. He couldn’t wait to reach his quarters and lie down in his bed for a while. It was positively frightening.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Lying down proved a true blessing, even though he found he was hurting practically everywhere and finding a more or less comfortable position turned out to be a real challenge. He briefly considered asking Sickbay for some painkillers, but after a moment rejected the idea.

Everyone down in Sickbay was either taking care of the coma patients – aside from Jedda there were twenty-six other such cases already, according to the latest report of the duty doctors – or working feverishly to find a cure, while growing weaker and more sick themselves by the minute. His pain could wait. If Bones and the others failed, in a couple of hours it wouldn’t matter anyway.

It seemed to him as if he’d only rested a few moments when his door chime sounded. He groaned and pushed himself up into a sitting position with considerable effort… and a little shock about how weak he’d become, even during the short time since his retreat to his quarters.

“Come!” he called out, surprised by the hoarseness of his own voice. Well, Bones _had_ told him the lungs would come next…

The door opened. To his mild surprise, it was Ilia who entered. She was not as badly splotched as him, but clearly weakened, too. Not that it would influence his determination, of course, and she _did_ look like a woman on the warpath.

Kirk gestured her to sit down on the bed – he simply didn’t feel the strength to get up and go to his office with her – and after a moment of hesitation, she did. Aside from being ill and weak, she also seemed upset and emotionally hurting… and not only because an out-of-control Deltan would pose a considerably security risk.

“How’s Doctor Adzhin-Dall doing?” he asked in concern. Jedda had been the first to fall into a coma. If he’d taken a turn to the worse, the others would follow, soon.

“His condition is unchanged,” Ilia replied grimly. “He isn’t the reason I sought you out, though. I’m here because of my daughter.”

Kirk withstood the urge to roll his eyes. He definitely wasn’t feeling well enough for this particular conversation, but Ilia’s manner clearly indicated that there’d be no way to avoid it.

“She’s not going to be harmed, Lieutenant,” he said, straining for patience.

“You’re experimenting with her!” Ilia retorted accusingly.

Kirk prayed for strength. “We are trying to save our lives!” he explained in as even a voice as he could manage in his current condition. “ _Everyone_ ’s life, including that of the girl.”

“And suppose she _is_ affected differently?” Ilia continued to press for answers. “What will you do then?”

Kirk tried to sidestep the answer, which was a stupid and dangerous thing to do while facing an angry telepath, he knew that. But he couldn’t think of any better tactic at the moment.

“We’ll investigate further,” he said evasively.

He knew he couldn’t fool Ilia, not in the long run, but he needed to give McCoy as much time as possible to finish his research.

“What sort of investigation, Captain?” Ilia demanded, her eyes growing cold and hostile as she locked them with Kirk’s.

He couldn’t feel anything he knew form the rare times Spock had chosen to mind-meld with him, yet he had no doubt whatsoever that she was reading his thoughts as easily as an open book.

“No!” she cried out, genuinely horrified. “I will _not_ have her confined in a force field!”

“You seem to have the mistaken idea that it is _your_ place to decide about that,” Kirk riposted icily, totally fed up with her uncooperative behaviour.

They locked eyes again, neither of them willing to back off. Kirk knew, of course, that Ilia could tear his mind to shreds if she wanted, but that wouldn’t help her. He’d already sent out the coded orders to the right people. Fortunately, some members of Security were telepathically blind and so couldn’t be manipulated. They had been selected for duty for those very qualities.

Ilia seemed to realise that, too, because she changed her tactic.

“And has it occurred to you, Captain, that if there is a connection between my child and the cylinder outside, if you harm her, the cylinder might launch a fresh attack?” she asked, with barely an edge of threat in her voice.

Kirk didn’t fall for her bluff – _if_ it had been a bluff, of course. He studied her for a moment warily.

“Do you _know_ the cylinder would be provoked?” he asked.

Ilia raised her chin defensively. “I know only that my daughter is good,” she replied single-mindedly. “And I would know if she were not. She poses no danger to the ship!”

But it was clear that she knew nothing about the true intentions of her mysterious child and was clutching to the last straw that could still save her belief in Irska’s innocence. Kirk pitied her, but his primary concern was for his ship and his crew.

The door chime saved him from an answer he couldn’t really give.

“Come in,” he called out tiredly. “The shop’s open around the clock.”

McCoy was already walking in, followed by a clearly unharmed Irska, who was beaming happily at them and carried a box of hyposprays. Xon came in after the two; unfortunately, his impassionate face didn’t reveal anything, as usual. But Kirk saw at once that McCoy’s splotches had visibly faded, and his energy level had obviously improved a great deal.

Although not a psychotherapist, McCoy sensed the charged atmosphere in the captain’s quarters and brought forth his best country doctor manners to loosen the tension.

“I thought you’d want your shot as soon as possible,” he said to Kirk, who was staring at him in awe.

“Bones!” the captain exclaimed. “You found a cure!”

“Doctor McCoy taught me all about life and death, Mother,” Irska declared, beaming at Ilia. “Everything will be all right now.”

Unfortunately, that still didn’t help Kirk to understand what the hell had happened.

“All those strange white corpuscles she’d been growing, Jim, “McCoy explained, pressing a hypospray to Kirk’s arm and it emptied with the familiar hiss. “I did tell you she had an unnatural amount of them in her blood, didn’t I?”

“You also told me she’d be suffering from leukaemia and would have to die within the week,” Kirk replied crossly, forgetting that Ilia was hearing about _that_ for the first time. “I still don’t understand how that could help _us_ , though.”

“I was wrong,” McCoy told him, clearly pleased about that fact – much more so than he usually would have been. He went over to Ilia, unloaded the empty cartridge from the hypospray and handed it to Irska, who put it in the box she was carrying before handing him a fresh one.

“Fact is,” McCoy continued while giving Ilia her shot, “The white corpuscles weren’t a sign of proliferation, after all. I actually manufactured the serum from them. Jim, she had the cure inside of her a week before we needed it!”

Xon raised an inquisitive eyebrow. “That is… highly unusual, doctor. Theoretically, something like this should not be possible.”

“Son,” McCoy replied with feeling, “I’ll be happy to discuss the scientific aspects of the phenomenon with you for as long as you want – _after_ we’ve gotten the entire crew inoculated.”

“You can’t take enough blood from the girl for five hundred persons, though,” Xon warned.

McCoy grinned at him happily.

“Of course not,” he agreed. “But the beauty of the whole thing is, Mr. Xon, that we’re dealing with a _synthetic_ cell here… and synthetic cells can be replicated at will."

He took the still beaming Irska by the hand and pulled her with him towards the door. After a moment of hesitation, Ilia followed them, with a soft smile on her face. They were about to leave when Kirk’s voice stopped them.

“Bones, had she been affected in any way at all?” the captain asked.

McCoy glanced back at him over his shoulder. If he was surprised by the question, he gave no sign of it.

“No,” he replied shortly, and left with mother and daughter.

Kirk and Xon exchanged meaningful looks.

“What a strange coincidence,” the Vulcan commented languidly. 

There was something in his tone that made the little hairs on the nape of Kirk’s neck rise.

“You have a theory,” he said. It wasn’t a question.

The Vulcan nodded. “Captain, would you do me the favour and ask the repair teams about the status of the radiating object that had been beamed to Filter Number Ten of our atmospheric purification system?”

“Surely I can do that,” Kirk gave him a suspicious look. “But I’d like to know what you expect to hear first, Lieutenant.”

“Well, sir, my theory is that the intruder has vanished by now,” Xon replied. “It has been my experience, though, that the captain’s inquiries are more readily answered than mine.”

“Now you’ve made me really curious,” Kirk went to the intercom, still a bit stiffly, but at least without pain, and contacted the repair team that had been dispatched to the life support control system.

Harrison, one of the technicians, was audibly shocked by his question. In fact, the man was definitely stottering when he reported that the unknown source of radiation that had threatened their lives a mere hour earlier had indeed vanished without a trace.

Kirk turned back to Xon and stared at him open-mouthedly.

“Have I just witnessed a prime example of the supposedly nonexistent Vulcan intuition, Lieutenant?” he asked.

“Not at all, Captain,” Xon replied calmly. “It is only logical that the intruder would no longer be there.”

“Is it?” Kirk said sceptically. “Would you care to enlighten me, too? Because frankly, I’m still baffled.”

“Certainly,” Xon nodded. “You see, Captain: now that we’ve found a cure, the… the _object_ is no longer necessary. Therefore it has been removed. It is that simple.”

The experiences of his previous five-year-mission enabled Kirk to understand what his science officer was hinting at. Suddenly the entire situation began to seem unpleasantly familiar to him.

“You mean it was all a test?” he asked slowly. “Some sort of idiotic test, orchestrated by an alien intelligence that couldn’t be bothered by the fact that all five hundred crewmembers could have died in the process?”

Xon nodded. “That is correct, Captain. The important question is, however, _who_ is being tested… and _why_.”

Kirk couldn’t give an answer, of course. But somehow he had the unpleasant feeling that they _would_ get an answer – and sooner than any of them would like.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
The complete decontamination of the ship took thirty-six hours. After that, McCoy ordered everyone to return to their quarters and have a twelve-hour rest. Everyone but a skeleton crew on emergency duty, that is. For once, the exhausted people didn’t object. Even the captain went to bed obediently.

During Gamma Shift, the physically strongest, most redundant officers were occupying the bridge. Xon was sitting in the command chair, repeating Vulcan mantras in his mind to keep his concentration on an acceptable level.

Ensign Bernstein, sitting at the weapons/defence station, was re-checking the sensors out of sheer boredom - for the fourth time.

At Science Station One, Lieutenant Park, the Tellarite radiation biologist was sitting, seemingly asleep. Xon knew, however, that appearances were deceiving in this case. Park was an extremely reliable officer; the fact that she’d closed her weak eyes, didn’t mean a thing, as she checked the working of the scanners with her extremely sensitive hearing to begin with.

Lieutenant DePaul, who occasionally switched between helm and Conn, was currently piloting the ship – if one could speak about _piloting_ when the ship was hanging dead in space, that is – while the unflappable, middle-aged Lieutenant John Farrell sat at the navigations console.

Communications was represented by Ensign Ga’qus, one of the handful of _native_ Tiburonians serving in Starfleet – all of them as communications experts. Unlike Uhura, she didn’t need a Feinberger-modul to listen to her instruments. Tiburonian ears were capable of hearing in the ultrasound area as well.

After roughly four hours of shared boredom, Bernstein stiffened in his chair and looked up from his console.” Lieutenant Xon, sir…”

The Vulcan swivelled with his chair to him immediately.

“Do you have something to report, Ensign?”

“Afraid so, sir,” Bernstein replied worriedly. “There’s something going on with that damn cylinder again!”

Xon only needed nanoseconds to fully return from the transcendental plane of light mediation to the sober reality.

“Could you elaborate, Mr. Bernstein?”

“Sir,” Park intervened with an excited snort. “Scanners confirm diverse forms of energy emanating from the alien object. There is also indication of some kind of radiation that I’ve never seen before!”

“Fascinating,” Xon ignored the over-excitement of the Tellarite with utter patience; although if _Park_ said she hadn’t seen anything like that before, it _had_ to be a unique phenomenon indeed. “Can you give me any details?”

“Radiation intensity and electromagnetic resonances are still well within tolerance levels,” Park replied. “At least at the moment they are,” she added in deep suspicion; an attitude that Xon could understand very well, in the light of the most recent events.

“Which doesn’t mean they’ll _stay_ within tolerance limits, though,” Meade Martin, who represented Engineering, voiced their shared suspicions.

Xon nodded. “I agree. Raise shields, Mr. Bernstein, and go to yellow alert. It would not surprise me at all if we found ourselves facing new, potentially lethal problems in the not-too-distant future. Alert the captain, Ensign Ga’qus; he would want to see this. And wake the senior staff, just in case.”


	11. Disaster

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of the dialogue contains rephrased lines from the original script, meant for Phase II of TOS.
> 
> Micah Omara is the nameless extra from the first movie who helped Scott checking the radiation levels. He could be seen in a white rad suit for about two minutes.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
CHAPTER 10 – DISASTER  
**  
The alarms of the yellow alert were still blaring when Kirk entered the turbolift – running straight into Colonel Tigh, also on his way to the bridge. Unlike some of the _Enterprise_ officers, Tigh seemed wide awake, his uniform crisp and spotless, as if he hadn’t been waken from his sleep. Decades on a warship had well prepared a man for such calls, obviously.

“I assume this alert has something to do with our friendly neighbour, the mysterious alien cylinder again,” Tigh commented without preamble. In potentially dangerous situations he was a soldier, first and foremost, who didn’t waste his time with social niceties.

Kirk nodded. “Something’s apparently brewing together out there,” he said, “if Xon saw it necessary to wake us all up. Vulcans aren’t easy to panic.”

The turbolift stopped at the bridge and the two men stepped out of the cabin. In the same moment the great starship shuddered as if hit by a gigantic fist. Everyone lost balance, with the exception of Xon, of course, who – thank to his amazing Vulcan reflexes – managed to hold to the back of the command chair he’d vacated upon Kirk’s arrival.

“Status report!” Kirk demanded while Tigh was helping him back onto his feet.

“We have no conclusive data just yet, Captain,” Xon walked over to Science Station One and glanced at the control screens over the shoulder of the Tellarite to check the readouts. “All we know is that our hull is being penetrated by an energy beam of unknown nature, emanating from the alien vessel. Neither forcefield screens, nor defensive shields seem to offer any resistance.”

“And you have no idea what kind of beam it is?” Kirk asked disapprovingly.

“It is definitely some sort of plasma energy, sir,” Lieutenant Park replied in the Vulcan’s stead. “It does have a vague similarity with Romulan plasma weapons, but not as destructive… at least not according to our current readings. This is totally unknown technology out there; I can’t even begin to guess what it is capable of, I’m sorry.”

Kirk shrugged dismissively (which, had he been aware of Park’s abilities, he probably wouldn’t have done), and turned to the communications station. “Damage report!”

Ensign Ga’qus rubbed her bat-like ears uncertainly. To the human eye, she looked like a puny, particularly ugly middle-aged man. Kirk had to consciously remind himself every time that he was dealing with a relatively young, _female_ member of the species.

“No casualties so far, Captain,” she reported. “However, I haven’t been able to reach Engineering yet. Mr. Scott told me about thirty seconds ago that he’s on his way to his _wee bairns_ , so I assume we’ll have detailed information concerning the status of the engines, soon.”

“Are the observation bakes still with us or have they been destroyed?” Kirk asked.

Ga’qus checked her control screen. “Some of them have, Captain, but five of them are still out there. They won’t give us a complete, three hundred and sixty degree three-dimensional image, especially not with all this interference, but…”

“I’ll take what I can get,” Kirk interrupted. “Give me an external view, Ensign.”

“External view, aye, sir.”

Ga’qus threw a few switches, and a moment later they could see the _Enterprise_ on the main viewer, surrounded by an ethereal blue glow like some kind of aura. Another, brighter and stronger plane – the defensive shields of the ship – stood midway between the now glowing cylinder and the _Enterprise_. Cutting through both energy fields and into the hull of the _Enterprise_ itself was a thin band of white light that funnelled off from the hovering cylinder.

Both turbolifts reached the bridge at the same time. The doors opened; Chekov, Sulu and Uhura emerged from the first one, moving as quickly as their not-yet-completely healed bodies allowed to their positions, not wanting to waste any time. With the other ‘lift McCoy arrived, alone.

“Will Decker’s gone down to Engineering,” he informed his commanding officer. “He meant he’d be most useful there.”

Kirk acknowledged that piece of news with a distracted nod, while Chekov took over Weapons/Defence from Bernstein and switched on a series of control screens used by security during emergencies only.

“I’m running a Level One radiation check, sir,” he told Kirk unnecessarily, as every first-year cadet could see what he was doing. “I don’t trust that thing out there.”

Kirk nodded again. Pointing out that Chekov was stating the glaringly obvious would have been counterproductive. It would only have undermined the already shaky self-confidence of his new security chief and made the easily excitable Russian even more nervous.

“I know the feeling, Mr. Chekov,” the captain replied. “Give me a damage report as soon as you can,” then he turned to Sulu, who’d already relieved DePaul from the helm. “Prepare for evasive maneuvers, Mr. Sulu,” then to Uhura. “Cancel the alarms, Commander, but go to red alert.”

While Uhura took over her position and muted the alarms, Ga’qus took off a panel of the communications console to check if there was some system failure causing their lack of contact with Engineering.

“Everything checks out fine here, Captain”, she reported less than a minute later, shaking her bald, pointed head (the feature that had earned all Tiburonians the nickname Coneheads __across the Federation) in concern. “The problem must be on their end of the connection.”

“Understood,” Kirk studied the situation grimly for another moment, then turned to Chekov.

“Arm phasers, Mr. Chekov, and lock them on target.”

The Russian began programming his weapons console, and Kirk turned back to the helm.

“Commence evasive maneuvers, Mr. Sulu. Sixty-five degrees to starboard. Go to Warp three.”

“Sixty-five degrees starboard rudder, aye,” Sulu repeated calmly. “Accelerating to Warp three.”

As the main screen was still switched to external view, those not occupied with their own instruments could see the _Enterprise_ veer away from the cylinder. The alien vessel first turned its white energy beam onto the _Enterprise_ ’s trail before swiftly following them. Once again, it caught up with them and swung in front of the _Enterprise_. This done, it abruptly turned off the energy beam.

“Phasers armed and locked on target, sir,” Chekov reported.

Before Kirk could have given the firing order, though, Decker called in from Engineering.

“Captain, the alien has disengaged its energy beam,” the first officer reported.

Kirk looked at the viewer, confirming with thinly-veiled relief that Decker had been right.

“Hold your fire, Mr. Chekov… for the time being anyway,” he ordered; then he turned to Xon. “Why did they stop? Did they know we were going to fire on them?”

“I doubt that could stop them from doing anything they wanted,” Decker’s voice said from Engineering.

“Perhaps, Captain, it was not aware that it was damaging us, and our evasive maneuver convinced it otherwise,” Xon suggested.

“They knew, Mr. Xon,” Decker replied him from Engineering. “They were shooting through fully powered shields. They _had_ to realise we didn’t like what they were doing.”

At this moment, the turbolift arrived at the bridge again, and Ilia emerged, leading a beautiful, red-haired child of about twelve years by the hand. It could only be Irska, since she was wearing the jewelled Deltan headband made by Scott. They remained in the background, but Kirk spotted them almost immediately. Seeing the annoyed expression on his face, the others followed his look, too, staring at mother and child… then a localised alarm went off with a low whistle.

Kirk turned to one of the control screens, frowned, and then hit the intercom button on the arm of his command chair.

“Scotty, why are the impulse engines overheating?” he demanded.

“I cannae tell ya just yet, Captain,” Scott’s thickly accented voice, a clear sign of stress, answered from Engineering. “None of our manual overrides will shut ‘em down. Control servo units mustae been fused…”

“Could that have been caused by the energy beam the cylinder just hit us with?” Kirk asked.

“Aye,” the chief engineer replied darkly. “At least _I cannae_ think of any other reason… and neither can Mr. Decker.

“Why am I not surprised?” Kirk muttered. His eyes locked on Ilia for a moment; then he turned to Chekov. “Damage control viewer, Mr. Chekov.”

Chekov pushed a few buttons. The external view on the main screen was replaced by the structural image of the _Enterprise_ , which Chekov quickly whirled on its axis. The code IMPLS ENG appeared on the screen, and the computer image quickly zoomed through to the appropriate area of the ship, where a flashing light synchronised with a constant beeping sound. At this point, additional codes appeared: SRVS 18, 7, 5, F2, CL 2LK. “FK” and “LK” flared on and off in red, ominously.

“Impulse servo units five, seven and eighteen are fused,” Chekov reported. “Plus, there is a leak in the Number Two cooling coil… a fairly big one at that, it seems. That’s where we were hit by the alien, sir.”

“I see,” Kirk glanced grimly at Ilia and her child. Irska had come forth, unnoticed, during the last few minutes and was now peering over Chekov’s shoulder at the control screens of the Weapons/Defence Station.

This was getting ridiculous – and bordering on insubordination, Kirk decided. But before he could deal with mother and child, he had to see that his ship got saved.

“You get that, Scotty?” he asked in that clipped tone he only used during emergencies. A tone his senior officers – at least those who’d served with him before – knew all too well. In the same tone he said to Ilia, “Please get your daughter off the bridge.”

“Daughter?” Scott, who couldn’t know what was going on on the bridge, asked in confusion. “Captain, what are ya…”

“Nothing, Scotty,” Kirk interrupted, his eyes still locked on Ilia, his voice low and dangerous. “Did you understand me, Lieutenant?”

Ilia might have been on maternal overdrive, but she was not a fool. She knew that disobeying a direct order could cost her her career. So she gently took Irska by the hand and tried to lead her away. The child, however, had other ideas; she apparently wanted to see everything that was happening on Chekov’s emergency control screens.

“Please, let me watch for just another minute,” she begged.

Ilia hesitated… then relented. She knew it was wrong, but she simply couldn’t deny her daughter anything. Chekov glanced uneasily at Irska, who smiled at him. Not yet realising that his orders had been ignored – again! – Kirk was still talking to Scott via intercom.

“All right, Scotty,” he said. “What do you suggest?”

“We havnae got any other choice, Captain,” the Scotsman replied unhappily. “We must send down a maintenance team to repair the leak, or else the impulse engines are gonna _boom_!”

“I’d suggest to be very careful, Meester Scott,” Chekov warned. “There’s no way to repair the leak without soaking up a massive dose of Beta rays.”

“What about repairing the servos first?” Kirk asked.

“Impossible,” someone down in Engineering, whose voice Kirk couldn’t recognise at the moment, answered. “ _That_ would take a twenty-man-crew three hours.”

“Omara’s right,” Scott said. “Coil’s the best bet. Three men could weld her in fifty minutes.”

“ _Fifty_?” Kirk repeated in surprise.

“Aye, I fear so,” Scott replied. “Under normal circumstances we couldae done it in twenty, but the radiation suits are gonna slow us down considerably.”

“Captain, Beta radiation in the access tube is vell over the tolerance limit,” Chekov warned. “Even vith a protective suit, no-one could remain there for more than ten minutes, tops.”

“Well, they’ll just have to rotate teams every ten minutes," McCoy intervened. “And each repair team will __go straight into the decontamination chamber afterwards, have you heard me, Scotty?” he added threateningly.

“Aye, Dr. McCoy, that we have,” despite the dangerous situation, Scott’s voice revealed that he was smiling. McCoy was such a mother hen.

“How much time do we have?” Kirk asked from Chekov, without turning to him.

Irska, still standing at Chekov’s elbow, gestured to the viewer in front of the security chief. “That says the impulse engines explode in eighty-nine minutes, Captain.”

Kirk whirled around and stared at the child incredulously.

“She’s right, _Keptin_ ,” Chekov said with a nervous grin.

“She might be right,” Kirk replied grimly, “but young lady, when I give a command on this ship, I expect you to follow it. And I expect _you_ ,” he added, giving Ilia a hard glare, “to make sure that she does.”

Without waiting for Ilia’s answer, he took the child by the hand and moved her away from Chekov’s station and towards the turbolift. Irska tried to resist.

“But can’t I… ouch!” she exclaimed, as Kirk happened to hold her hand too tightly.

“No!” Kirk interrupted, ignoring her accusing look. “Off the bridge! I’ve already told you: this isn’t a playground.“

He pushed the child in Ilia’s direction, then stepped to the nearest wall intercom unit. “Scotty, get to that leak fast, before we turn into a fireball. And keep me informed!”

Through the open channel to Engineering, they could hear the chief engineer giving orders to his people.

“Ferguson, meet me at impulse engine access tube seventy-four-J, with heat and Beta suits for four three-man-teams,” Scott was saying. “Repair teams Gamma one through four, report in, on the double. Omara, call in all other repair teams, _now_.”

Affirmed that things were progressing in Engineering with the usual efficiency, Kirk turned back his attention to Ilia and Irska.

“Lieutenant,” he said slowly, again in that dangerously low voice, “go back to your quarters. If you can’t – or won’t, for whatever reason – entrust your daughter to your partner, it will be the best for us all if you left the bridge, too, and don’t return until I expressly tell you to do so.”

Ilia blanched. Sulu, Chekov and Uhura became very still and quiet at once. They knew that in this mode Kirk was better being obeyed without any further argument. Unfortunately for her, Ilia hadn’t had the time to learn that particular lesson yet.

“Request permission to return to my station, sir,” she said instead.

“Request denied, Lieutenant,” Kirk replied coldly. “Until further notice, you’re relieved from your duties. Take your daughter below _now_ , or I’ll have you removed by Security. I’m not used to repeat my orders, and don’t intend to _get_ used to do so.”

“Yes, sir,” Ilia said resignedly. She and Irska turned and entered the turbolift.

Except for Xon, who sat down to Science Station Two and started to work with the calm, unhurried competence of his kind, all senior officers looked at Kirk a little uncomfortably. In principle, they agreed with him, of course – the bridge was no place for a child – but they did find his manners perhaps a little too harsh.

“She knew I couldn’t allow Irska to remain on the bridge,” Kirk said defensively.

“Of course, sir,” Uhura replied, her voice just a tad chilly. “Any orders, Captain?”

“You and Sulu don’t have to stay here,” Kirk said. “We won’t be able to leave our position anyway, so Gamma Shift can maintain their duties as they were. We’ll call you if anything happens, but I’d like to have at least two well rested officers in Alpha Shift.”

Sulu was obviously reluctant to leave the bridge, but since Uhura obeyed without a further word, he didn’t have a chance to do otherwise.

“I’ll join you in a moment, Heart of Flame,” Tigh promised Uhura. “I just want to get a detailed picture about our current situation.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Down in Impulse Engineering, in the corridor right before impulse engine access tube 74-J, Scott and Ensign Ferguson were helping repair team Gamma One into their protective suits at speed. A good deal of black smoke and steam was pouring out of the access tube, so Scott checked the collar of Will Decker’s suit twice, to be sure the protective helmet was airtight.

“I’m still not certain this is such a good idea, Mr. Decker,” he muttered under his breath. “Why’d ya wanna go in there yerself? Me people are more than capable of welding a cooling coil, ya know. That’s what they’ve been _trained_ fer, after all.”

“Sure they are,” the tall, lanky Decker looked ridiculously broad and thick in the bulky white radiation suit. “But they haven’t helped you with the reconfiguration of these Jefferies-tubes. We’re the ones who know this section like the back of our hand, Mr. Scott – and _you’re_ needed in Main Engineering to keep things under control.”

“Ensign Omara was a member of the construction team, too,” Scott argued, giving a sidelong glance the young, gifted engineer, also suited up but without wearing a helmet just yet, standing nearby. “He can do the job as well as yerself.”

“He’ll get his chance soon enough,” Decker replied. “As soon as he relieves me. You’ve heard Dr. McCoy, haven’t you? After ten minutes, we must get out of there again. Let’s do this, then. Mr. Thule, Mr. Withing, you’re with me!”

The two fully suited technicians – one Andorian, one human – picked up the repair sheathing, the small laser torch they’d need to weld it into place and a number of other tools they might need for additional repairs and climbed into the access tube as quickly as they could. It wasn’t an easy task, as they were laden down with equipment, and the going in the narrow tunnel proved difficult… especially as smoke and steam obscured their vision.

“We’ll need a spare hose for our air supply to blow a clearing through all that smoke and steam,” Ensign Omara commented. “Go back to Main Engineering, Chief, and watch their progress. They’ll need twelve minutes to get there and back, plus ten for the work itself. Which means, my team needs to be ready to go in in twenty; assuming there won’t be any complications.”

“Are ya expecting any?” Scott asked, not really surprised.

Micah Omara nodded. His smooth, dark face was ash grey with anxiety. "It would be too easy if that thing out there would let us do our job in peace,” he replied. “Somehow I don’t really count on _that_ happening.”

Scott sighed. He didn’t like to admit, but he had the same bad feeling about the whole thing as his young assistant.

“Well, I’m gonna back to Main Engineering, then,” he said, “and will send your team down here at once. Be careful, lad.”

“Am I not always?” Omara tried to smile, but it wasn’t very convincing. Not even for himself.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Originally, Uhura had intended to return directly to her quarters and rest a little until Tigh’s arrival. As she was riding the turbolift to Deck Four, though, she was still seeing Irska’s hurt, disappointed eyes in her mind. The girl reminded her of her own son, Kitharo, as he had been when they’d still lived on Two Dawns. Kitharo, too, had wanted to be with the adults all the time and could sulk for hours if his parents – or the co-workers of Ambassador Obote – had sent him out of the room.

Karidy had been different, of course…

Uhura felt her throat constrict and her heart ache as always when remembering her sweet little daughter whom she’d lost at the tender age of four. They’d known that Karidy wouldn’t live long, of course. She’d inherited the rare immune deficiency syndrome not even Federation medical science could heals – the same deadly illness that had taken her father much too young, too. But even though they had been prepared, Karidy’s passing left an empty place in Uhura’s heart that could never be filled again.

Perhaps because she’d been such a sweet, brave child. Till the last moment, she wouldn’t let the illness rob her of her joy in life, and she had fallen asleep in her mother’s arms with a smile – to never wake up again.

It had been almost fifteen years by now. Yet although Uhura _had_ found comfort in her love for Tigh and the birth of their daughter Kimora, the wound caused by Karidy’s death had never healed completely. If anyone, she certainly could understand Ilia’s wild determination to protect her child.

Giving in to a sudden impulse, she passed her own door and continued to Ilia’s quarters. The door chime was different here: a sharper, yet more melodious sound, most likely adjusted to the Deltan hearing range. There was no answer from within, but the door opened almost immediately. Jedda Adzhin-Dall stood on the doorstep, still wearing the signs of his recent illness, but clearly ready for any confrontation.

“You can lower your shields,” Uhura said calmly. “This is just a social call. I owe you an unannounced midnight visit, remember?”

Jedda smiled and stepped aside to allow her in.

“But of course, Commander,” he replied, touching Uhura’s temples with his palms in the traditional Deltan gesture of greeting a trusted friend. Uhura felt her cheeks heating up and was grateful for her dark skin that concealed her blush. There was simply no help against the effect of Deltan pheromones.

“You’re always welcome in our home,” Jedda continued, gently stroking their visitor’s face and neck, then sliding his palms down Uhura’s shoulders and upper arms, down to the elbows, before taking her arm and leading her into the living room.

This wasn’t any kind of forced intimacy. Deltans simply _needed_ physical contact to be able to bond with others, even on the most basic level. They did, however, take the discomfort of other races into consideration and only touched non-Deltans if they considered them close friends. Uhura knew that and felt accordingly honoured, even though it did make her feel a little uncomfortable… mostly because it was so pleasurable.

Ilia and Irska were sitting on floor cushions covered with the famous Deltan nappa leather. Uhura owned a pair of such cushions at home – or, at least, she’d thought she did, until now. As soon as she sank into the sensual pleasure of _true_ Deltan nappa leather, she understood at once that she’d been sold the fake item.

“Yeah, that happens,” Jedda laughed, sitting next to her on the two-person-cushion and stroking her hand absent-mindedly; not that he’d need physical contact to read her thoughts. Deltan telepathy worked differently. The physical touch was simply necessary for a Deltan during a friendly conversation to create the desired foundation of trust. “We usually don’t sell these things outside of Seyalia at all. But if you’re truly interested in purchasing the real item, I can help you with that. A cousin of mine is a designer and famous for making these cushions by hand.”

“I’d appreciate that, assuming we all get out of this crisis unharmed,” Uhura smiled in delight. “I find that I’ve come to value comfort a great deal.”

“I thought people in Africa would sit on the floor,” Ilia said in surprise. Irska was sitting next to her quietly, her eyes still wide and angry.

“We do,” Uhura agreed, “but we usually shove nice, soft pillows under our backside while doing so.”

They all laughed at that. Even Irska’s mouth, pressed into a thin, angry line, curled upwards at the corners a bit.

“However,” Uhura continued, “I haven’t come to get myself new, comfy cushions. I came to speak with Irska, if you don’t mind, Lieutenant,” she looked at the child. “Come here, precious.”

The girl looked at her mother uncertainly. Ilia gave her an encouraging look; even pushed her a little, until the child gave in and went to Uhura, still with obvious reluctance. Her most recent experiences on the bridge must have shaken her unconditional trust for the people around her.

“Listen to me, precious,” Uhura began. “I know you’re angry because Captain Kirk didn’t allow you to stay on the bridge. I happen to know the look you’re displaying right now all too well. When my son was so young, he, too, always wanted to go to places where he wasn’t allowed to be because they could be dangerous.”

“But I wasn’t in any danger, at no time,” Irska answered with deep conviction. “The cylinder would never harm me. Never.”

“Perhaps not,” Uhura nodded, hiding her mild shock over that answer with practiced ease. “But it has already harmed _us_ , several times. Without you, we’d probably be all dead by now.”

Irska frowned, clearly thinking about something.

“Doctor McCoy says that people die when their bodies cease to function,” she finally said. “Does that mean I was dead before I was born?”

Ilia rose, went to her daughter and, kneeling down, she took Irska’s face in her hands, looking deeply into the girl’s eyes.

“Deltans believe that before we are born and after we die, we exist as pure love,” she said. “We try to reflect that state for as long as we are alive. If we manage to do that, between life and death there isn’t such a great difference.”

Uhura was deeply touched by that statement and hated to ruin the moment, but she had to. Considering Irska’s strange origins, having her mad at the captain could have lead to unfortunate consequences – for them all.

“Irska,” she said gently, “I know you don’t understand a lot about Captain Kirk, but believe me if I say you that he’s a good person. He’s just going through great strain right now. Sometimes, when that happens to people, they say things they don’t really mean.”

“Why?” Irska asked, still suspicious and a little doubtful

“Well, he is the Captain, which means he has to care for all people on this ship,” Uhura explained. “He has to protect the ship and the crew, just like your mother protects you. It isn’t an easy task, you know. And he worries a great deal about his people… about us all.”

Irska looked at her with those unsettlingly mature eyes.

“He doesn’t hate me?” she asked. “Doesn’t he hate all children?”

“Of course not!” Uhura stroked the child’s hair, and Irska snuggled up to her trustingly. “On the contrary. He’s got a nephew, back on Earth, whom he raises as if he were his own son. His name is Peter, and he has red hair, just like you. The captain is just concerned that something bad might happen to us all because of that cylinder, do you understand?”

“Yes, I do,” Irska spontaneously hugged her, and Uhura’s heart ached again, because that was how Karidy had always greeted her upon coming home from work. “You’re so very nice!”

“So are you, precious, so are you. You’re such a delight,” Uhura turned her head away to hide her tears, but it was a moot point in the company of Deltans, of course.

Ilia leaned forward and touched her face.

“When this crisis is over, I’d like you to tell us about your daughter,” she said quietly, and Jedda nodded in agreement. “We’ll mourn with you… and celebrate all the goodness and beauty she gave you and the world in her short life. Would you like to do that?”

Uhura nodded wordlessly, unable to hold back her tears.


	12. Inferno

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of the dialogue contains rephrased lines from the original script, meant for Phase II of TOS.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
CHAPTER 11 – INFERNO  
**  
Montgomery Scott got back to Main Engineering, just in time to take Decker’s first report… and it didn’t sound encouraging.

“We’ve reached cooling coil Number Two, Mr. Scott,” the executive officer’s voice said, a bit distorted by his helm microphone. “The leak is frigging large; a lot larger than we’ve estimated. I assume the radiation has interfered with our sensors. In any case, we’ll need a lot more repair sheathing down here if we want to…”

For a while, there was silence, aside from the crackling of static, then a shocked outcry from Decker. “Oh my God, Thule! Look at _that_!”

There was no answer, just a pained scream, too loud to have originated from the Andorian. “My eyes! Oh God, my eyes!”

Scott leaned closer to the intercom, if that could help him to see what was going on in the access tube. His broad, ruddy face became deathly pale with concern for his men. He even forgot the due respect towards the young first officer, who could have been his son, age-wise. He had come to like and value the lad a great deal while working with him on the refitting of the ship.

“Will, what’s going on?” he demanded. “Dammit, lad, answer me! “What’s happened?”

Decker didn’t answer him at once. Perhaps he hadn’t even heard the question. His voice, while speaking to his men, had become so distorted Scott could barely understand him.

“Thule, are you strong enough to drag Arch along the access tube? Good; do it. He must be taken to Sickbay, if we want to save his eyes… No, I’ll stay here and try to fix what still can be fixed. Yes, send them right down. And tell them to bring the biggest laser torch one can still operate manually. Now get out of here, dammit, we’re running out of time!”

Scott couldn’t hear the Andorian’s reply through all that static; neither could he even imagine what was happening in the access tunnel. After a few minutes, however, Decker reported in again.

“Mr. Scott, send me the second repair team at once. But tell them to set the hyperpolarisation of their helmets to the highest level. Poor Whiting hadn’t thought of doing so… perhaps this was the last thing he saw in his life.”

“What’s it like down there, sir?” Scott asked, while Omara and his team were already putting on their helmets and picking up their tools to get down as soon as possible.

“It’s terrible… and glorious at the same time,” Decker replied, his voice full of morbid fascination. “I’ve never seen anything so incredible before. The radiation is so bright, it’s sheer unbearable, even through the hyperpolarised visor; and it’s hot in here. _Very_ hot. Even in rad suits, five minutes are the maximum a human being could endure without being irreparably damaged.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
The conversation had been dispatched to the bridge, of course, and it made everyone very nervous - except for Xon.

“Captain,” the Vulcan glanced up from his instruments, “I think I have found a solution.”

“If you’re gonna start spouting any nonsense about superior Vulcan physiology, I’ll have to disappoint you, Lieutenant,” McCoy commented sourly. “Not even you would survive down there any longer than ten minutes.”

“I know,” Xon replied solemnly, “but _Irska_ would. I’ve tied the girl’s medical profile to the main computer, doctor, and studied the specifications. I believe she is capable of withstanding the radiation from the impulse engine cooling core.”

Both Kirk and McCoy stared at the Vulcan incredulously.

“Are you suggesting we send _Irska_ in there to fix the leak?” Kirk finally asked, still barely believing his ears.

“I am merely presenting the alternative,” Xon replied with an elegant shrug.

“But you only _think_ she’d be safe,” McCoy reminded him. “What if you’re wrong? Besides, she’s still a child.”

“There would be considerable risk, yes,” Xon agreed. “I merely maintain that she would most likely survive long enough to effect repairs. Considering that five hundred lives are at risk here, I believe we can take responsibility for risking one life to save all the others. You can consult Mr. Decker about it, of course, but the facts are speaking clearly.”

“Consult me about _what_?” Decker’s voice came clear and free of static from the intercom, which could only mean that the first officer had already left the access tube.

“I’m being decontaminated and intend to stay in Main Engineering, sir,” he informed Kirk, “in case Mr. Scott might need my help. About what are you supposed to consult me?”

Xon explained his theory in a few short and poignant sentences, rattling down the scientific facts to prove it.

“Ilia would never allow her daughter to be endangered like that,” Decker pointed out.

“Then I suggest that we do not consult Lieutenant Ilia,” Xon replied simply.

The executive officer was shocked by that suggestion beyond measure.

“That’s a cold-blooded approach if I ever heard one,” he declared in dismay. “Are you really planning to send that child into lethal danger, and that behind the back of her mother? _I have_ seen what it’s like down there. Perhaps _you_ should take a look, too, before you send someone into that inferno.”

“I believe the alien deliberately damaged us in an area that only Irska could enter,” Xon replied with surprising gentleness; those who were used to Spock’s unbending sternness could barely believe their ears. “Just as the cure Doctor McCoy discovered could only come from _her_ blood.”

“An interesting theory,” Decker said. “But can you guarantee that the girl won’t be harmed?”

“Mr. Decker,” the Vulcan said seriously, “every self-respecting scientist knows that out here, in deep space, there are no guarantees for _anything_. Sometimes we simply have no other choice than to choose the solution with the highest scientific probability for success. Even if that solution is a risky one,” he looked at Kirk gravely. “Captain, it _is_ within your authority to order the child to help.”

Kirk knew that, of course. It just went against everything he believed in to do so. After some inner struggle, he pushed the intercom button to contact Engineering again.

“Scotty. Progress with those servos yet?”

“This is Ensign Sharma, sir,” a female voice answered. “It appears the units will have to be cut out with a torch. That will take a while, sir.”

“Where’s Mr. Scott?” Kirk asked, not really surprised by the utter lack of progress. It would have been too good to be true.

“He’s in the access tube, sir,” Sharma answered, “attempting to weld the leak.”

That _did_ surprise Kirk… and angered him as well.

“What’s Mr. Scott doing in there?” he demanded. “He’s in no condition to work in such a dangerous place!”

“We know, sir,” Sharma replied apologetically. “But we’ve barely got enough teams to rotate between two turns of decon. We _have_ to use everyone with the right qualifications.”

“I see,” Kirk said grimly. “Keep this channel open, Ensign – and keep me informed.”

“Aye-aye, sir,” and Sharma was gone.

Kirk looked at Xon, then at Chekov, who shrugged helplessly. There really weren’t many choices for them left.

“Very well,” Kirk finally said, coming to a hard decision. “Lieutenant Carlisle, please escort Lieutenant Ilia and her daughter to the bridge.”

The grim-faced, middle-aged Carlisle, who’d already served aboard the _Enterprise_ under Captain Pike’s command, marched out of the bridge without any comment. He was the most experienced officer in Security, one who’d learned his lessons through fatal mistakes in the past – mistakes that still haunted him in sleepless nights – and Chekov trusted him unconditionally, which was why he usually got bridge duty during Gamma Shift. After so many years on the same starship no emergency could bring Carlisle out of his calm – and he had no problems with carrying out unpopular orders, either. Just like now.

“Lieutenant,” he said upon entering Ilia’s quarters without preamble, “the captain wants to see you and your daughter on the bridge. _Now_.”

“Did he say why?” Ilia asked. She’d come to Know Kirk well enough already to suspect some that there was something else behind this sudden change of mind.

“He did,” Carlisle answered with an expressionless face. “However, I’m not authorised to tell you anything else,” he paused for a moment, then unbent enough to add. “Especially as you’re probably not gonna like it.”

That little piece of non-information frightened Ilia, but she knew there would be no use asking any more questions. Carlisle took his orders very seriously. And since he was one of the telepathically blind security officers, Ilia didn’t even launch the futile effort to read his thoughts. Instead, she took Irska by the hand and followed the man out of her quarters, warily and ready to fight everyone for her sake.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
“It is out of question!”

It had been perhaps ten minutes since Ilia and her daughter returned to the bridge Xon had given a detailed and – as he hoped – convincing description of their situation, emphasizing the fact that the only logical step would be to send Irska into the access tube. The Deltan navigator, however, had a different idea about logic.

“It is out of question,” she repeated firmly. “Under no circumstances will I send my child down into that inferno from which grown men could barely escape with their lives.”

“Lieutenant,” the Vulcan began again patiently, “I respect your maternal feelings, but there is no other alternative. The situation is quite simple: if the impulse engine cooling system is not immediately repaired, the ship will be destroyed within twenty minutes. And then we shall all die... _including_ your daughter. On the other hand, Irska is the only person on board who can withstand the Beta ray bombardment in the access tube long enough to affect the repairs!”

Ilia looked at Kirk intently, trying to remain calm. Before she could protest any further, though, Irska took her hand.

“Mother… I _want_ to help!”

“I know,” Ilia replied, almost in tears. “But, darling, sometimes…”

“Mr. Scott is my _friend_ ,” Irska interrupted and turned to Xon. “I don’t want him to die. Is he in any danger?”

The Vulcan nodded seriously. If he was taken aback by the unlogic of the question, he was hiding it well.

“Right now, Mr. Scott is in that access tube, attempting to weld the coolant leak,” he explained. “If the impulse engines explode, he will be the first to die; _if_ the radiation does not kill him before.”

Any other child would have blanched and burst out in tears. But once again, Irska proved that she wasn’t just any child. She took both her mother’s hands, and the two searched each other’s eyes for an endless moment. That seemed to calm Ilia down considerably.

“The reason I love you… or _one_ reason I love you… is that you have learned to love others,” she told her daughter, signalling that she had accepted Irska’s decision.

Irska gave her a brilliant smile. “It will be all right, Mother,” she promised. “Really, it will.”

Ilia nodded, but it was obvious to everyone present that she didn’t believe things would be quite that simple. Irska, in the meantime, turned to Xon.

“Tell me what I have to do!” she demanded.

The Vulcan raised a surprised eyebrow. The child certainly knew what she wanted – but it was perhaps the best, for them all.

“Follow me to Engineering, then,” he replied.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
When Xon entered Main Engineering, with Irska in tow, red emergency lights were flashing all around them. The desperately concentrating engineers and techs, who were rerouting power from damaged areas and programming overrides all around them, looked as if they’d been dipped into blood. _Human_ blood.

In the middle of the cavernous room, Dr. McCoy was kneeling on the floor, trying to save somebody’s life. The face and hands of the man, still wearing a white radiation suit, was covered with horrible, at least third grade burns. One needed a second look to realise that his skin – or what little was still left of it – had originally been dark.

“It was horrible, Doc…” he rasped, barely understandable. “As bright as… the heart of a sun and… at least twice as hot… The… the radiation was shooting… forwards… outwards… even backwards, it… penetrated my… my flesh… I… I could see my blood vessels and… my bones… oh God, my very bones… they were… they were transparent… like… like glass…”

“Shut up, Omara, or you’ll damage what’s left of your throat if you’re trying to speak,” McCoy warned him; then he shouted in the direction of the comm unit. “Where’s that godforsaken trauma team with the antigravs, dammit?!”

The turbolift door opened in the same moment, and a two-man trauma team ran out of it. They unfolded the antigravitation gurney with quick, precise movements and hauled the patient onto it as carefully as they could. They opened his radiation suit all the way to place at least half a dozen life supporting devices onto his battered body.

“Doctor Sanchez and Nurse Chapel are ready and waiting in the OP theatre,” one of them informed McCoy.

Before they could have taken him away, Micah Omara grabbed McCoy’s tunic with a bleeding, deformed hand.

“Don’t allow… anyone else to… go in there, Doc…” he rasped with the last of his waning strength. “It’s… pointless…”

His head rolled to the side, and he lost consciousness. He was barely breathing anymore.

“Take him!” McCoy ordered. “He must be operated at once, or we’ll lose him!”

The med techs raced with the gurney to the turbolift, as quickly as the momentum of the antigravs allowed. McCoy jogged after them tiredly, ignoring Omara’s bloody, sooty handprint on his white tunic.

An equally tired and battered Will Decker crawled out of one of the maintenance tunnels. His face was smeared with the black residues of burned cables, his blond hair hung wetly into his reddened eyes.

“Are you still sure you wanna go in there?” he asked hoarsely. 

Irska nodded.

“Mr. Xon has explained it to me,“ she said in her clear, clam voice. “ _You_ can’t go back in; you’d all die in there. And if nobody goes in, _everyone_ will die. But me… the light won’t harm _me_.”

“Why not?” Decker wondered.

The question seemed to surprise the girl. She blinked a few times.

“I think… I think I’ve _come_ from the light,” she finally replied matter-of-factly.

Decker, more familiar with physics than with metaphysics, had no further argument against that. Besides, what other choice did they have? Therefore Irska considered the discussion closed and focused on Xon, who was explaining her how to operate the laser torch.

“You switch the torch on by depressing this button,” he demonstrated, and had Irska repeat the move several time, just to be sure that she’d understood. “The actual welding itself will be a relatively single procedure. You will see steam escaping from the area you are to…”

He was explaining the procedure with proper Vulcan precision, while Irska listened intently. It only took a minute or two; but in the current situation, even the delay of a minute or two could prove disastrous, as Decker pointed out to the Vulcan.

“I am well aware of the importance of the time factor,” Xon replied calmly, “but we do want her to do a good job in there, do we not? By the way, where is Mr. Scott?”

“Down in hell, where else?” Decker replied in clear annoyance. “He’s gotten back some five minutes ago.”

Xon frowned. “If I remember correctly, Mr. Scott has been expressly warned _not_ to go down there again, since he had been the one with the heaviest radiation poisoning during the previous crisis.”

Decker gave him that patient, almost pitying look humans sometimes tended to give Vulcans.

“Lieutenant,” he said quietly, “we’re running out of people who’re capable of affecting the necessary repairs.”

 _That_ obvious truth Xon could not counter, of course. So he turned around to help Irska into one of the smaller-size radiation suit, originally designed for Tellarites or other, similarly short species. It was too wide for the girl, but roughly the right size. She’d be able to work in it, he decided.

Somewhere in the background Ensign Sharma reported anxiously that Mr. Scott wouldn’t answer the calls any longer.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
When Xon and Irska, now both suited up properly, reached the entrance of the access tunnel, Thule, the Andorian technician joined them unexpectedly.

“You’ll need my help in there,” he explained, putting on the protective helm, careful not to hurt his sensitive antennae. “We insectoid species have a higher tolerance against radiation than humanoids - well, relatively spoken.”

“How often have you been in there already?” Xon asked.

Thule wriggled his antennae as much as the helmet allowed.

“Four times… and please, no lectures right now! I know I’ve gone well beyond my tolerance limits.”

“That you have indeed,” Xon nodded.

“On the other hand,” the Andorian continued wryly, “being overly careful won’t do me much good if the ship goes off like a supernova, will it?”

“True enough,” the Vulcan admitted, stepping to the junction box on the wall to override the security code.

When the emergency force-field sealing the access tube disappeared, one could already hear the howling of the uncontrolled energy storm within. Xon pulled a decidedly un-Vulcan-like face and wished he had a double lid on his ears as well as before his eyes. His sensitive Vulcan hearing was much more affected by the noise than the human ear would have been.

“Stay behind me!” fortunately, the helm microphone amplified the hoarse whisper of the Andorian, or else they wouldn’t have understood a word. “I must get Mr. Scott out first; if you stay in there for too long, you’ll be dead, and I don’t have time to transport dead bodies right now!”

Xon stepped to the side obediently, and Thule lowered himself onto all fours and crawled into the access tube. Since all Andorians had long torsos and short limbs – a trait inherited from their insectoid ancestors – that enabled him to move more quickly in the narrow space, despite the bulky radiation suit.

In the meantime, McCoy had returned to Engineering, ready to treat any other potentially wounded people.

“How’s Omara doing?” Decker asked. The chief medical officer shrugged.

“I can’t tell you for certain,” he admitted. “Sanchez is a very good surgeon, but that poor devil had fourth- and fifth grade burns. Some right through to the bone. It all depends on his heart, whether it’s strong enough to stand through a long series of operations. And even if it does, he’ll have to spend a very long time in reg-gel afterwards. How are thing here?”

“Thule is just about to drag Mr. Scott out of the access tube,” Decker informed him. “He hasn’t reported in for the last four minutes; he must have lost consciousness.”

“Thule shouldn’t have gone in there again!” McCoy said, alarmed.

Decker laughed mirthlessly. “Well, Doc… neither of us should, should we? But do we have any other choice?”

“What’s wrong with you, people?” McCoy muttered angrily. “You’re all acting like we’re dice in some game the gods are playing! ‘Choice,’ ‘no choice!’ We do what’s necessary, and we do it fast, right?”

Knowing that McCoy’s anger wasn’t aimed at him, Decker replied gently. “We do, Doc, we do. That’s why Thule has gone down there right now.”

McCoy sighed, his anger vented a little.

“Let’s go there,” he decided. “They might need immediate medical assistance. I’ll call the trauma teams, too, just in case.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
They went to the access tube and found Xon and Irska still waiting. Decker peered into the tunnel carefully. It was filled with dim, reddish light, steam and smoke, but beyond all that, there was blinding brightness. Before the background of that merciless shining, a small, dark, grotesquely broad figure tried to crawl backwards on all fours, trying to drag away another, seemingly lifeless figure from the light. The radiation surrounded them with a glowing aura.

“He’ll never do it,” McCoy murmured in resignation. “He’s soaked up too much radiation already.”

As if proving his words, Thule slipped in the middle of the tunnel and fell over Scott’s lifeless body – and didn’t move again.

Irska cried out in distress and attempted to run into the tunnel, but Xon came before her. With superhuman strength, he picked up the girl and practically threw her into McCoy’s arms. Then, before Decker could have held him back, he jumped into the access tube.

He crawled on all fours, as he’d seen from Thule before. With quick, purposeful movements, he removed Scott’s and Thule’s tool belts, fastening them to the utility rings on the shoulder patches of their radiation suits. Then he linked the whole thing with Thule’s safety rope and backed off the tunnel as quickly as he could.

“Pull!” he gasped, pushing the end of the rope into Decker’s hand.

One of the trauma teams McCoy had ordered to Engineering arrived just in time to help them drag Scott and Thule out of the tunnel. The chief engineer was in almost as bad a shape as Omara had been. The Andorian, too, was unconscious, his face covered with cobalt blue haematomas. Irska clutched to Scott’s hand, crying openly but Xon pulled her away.

“Let the doctor help him,” he said.

McCoy and the trauma team moved in quickly. They lifted Scott onto the antigrav gurney and removed his rad suit, so that McCoy could examine him. The doctor waved his medical scanner across Scott’s limp body.

“He’s alive… barely,” he announced, giving the man several shots. “Get him to Sickbay and send the other team to pick up Thule. Oh, and tell M’Benga to speed up the production of the reg-gel – it seems there’ll be quite the demand.”

“Yes, Doctor,” one of the med techs replied, and with that, the trauma team whisked off the chief engineer. McCoy now reset his medical scanner to check out Xon, but the Vulcan waved him away.

“I am quite all right, Doctor,” he declared. “I was not in the radiation zone long enough to suffer any ill effects.

“ _I will be_ the judge of that,” McCoy replied sternly and gave him a shot anyway. Xon endured it stoically; then he turned back to Irska, who was staring in shock at her own hand, the fingers of the white glove red and sticky with Scott’s blood.

“Irska,” he said, “it is up to you now. According to the progress reports of the repair teams, the patch is already in place. All that is necessary is for it to be carefully sealed. Use the steam as your guide. When the patch is fully sealed, no more steam will escape.

“But Mr. Scott…” Irska began fearfully.

“… is in good hands,” Xon interrupted. “However, if _you_ do not hurry up _now_ , the doctors will not have the time to help him.”

Irska hesitated for a moment, torn between fear for his friend and the urge to help. Finally, she picked up the large laser torch that was almost as big as she was.

“I’ll go in now,” she announced.

The Vulcan nodded. “Go. You are holding all our lives in your hand.“

The girl crawled into the access tube, shoving the laser torch before her. Her small, fragile shape was soon lost in the unbearable brightness. Decker looked after her in concern.

“Have you told her to use the hyperpolarisation of her helm at the highest setting?” he asked the Vulcan. “Not that it would be much of a help, as we could see,” he added ruefully, rubbing his tearing eyes.

“I have little doubt that Irska will accomplish her task and suffer no radiation damage,” Xon replied calmly. “She might _show_ humanoid parameters, but she is clearly not a human; perhaps not even vaguely humanoid in her true form.”

“Are you assuming she’s some sort of shapeshifter who’s managed to fool my diagnostic instruments?” McCoy asked. “Well, it wouldn’t be the first time. If she’s capable of changing on the molecular level…”

“I cannot tell you _what_ she is,” Xon answered. “However, the recent pattern of events indicates that we can expect some new difficulty to follow swiftly upon the solution of this one. Perhaps the next crisis _will_ bring us closer to an answer.”

“Sounds delightful,” Decker muttered sourly.

McCoy patted his arm encouragingly. “Don’t take it personally, Will. It’s just a Vulcan thing. No life-form in the known galaxy can spoil good news faster than your average Vulcan. You’ll learn to live with it.”

“There is _good_ news?” Decker asked humourlessly. “Care to share them with me, Doc? Because sure as hell I could use some right now.”

Before McCoy could answer – not that he _would_ have any suitable answer, to tell the truth – the intercom cracked alive. Lieutenant Spinelli, the duty officer overseeing the damage control monitors for Impulse Engineering, was calling them.

“Mr. Decker, radiation intensity is slowly going down in the access tube,” Spinelli reported. “It’s at ninety-eight per cent now… ninety-five per cent… ninety per cent… eighty-two… sixty-seven… Sir, whoever is working down there, they’re performing a true miracle!”

“Keep me informed continually, Lieutenant,” Decker ordered. “Our instruments are extremely unreliable down here.”

“Aye, sir. Radiation levels at forty per cent… at thirty per cent… at _ten_ per cent… Sir, radiation has stopped completely!”

“Thank you, Mr. Spinelli,” Decker said. “Please, send an ersatz crew to Deck F, to Impulse Engineering, and initiate decontamination procedures. Decker out.”

In the meantime, the second trauma team had patched up Thule well enough to be moved, so they ran off with him to Sickbay. McCoy stayed behind for a moment. He wanted to see whether Xon’s theory concerning Irska would turn out right.

“Damage repaired, Captain,” Decker reported to the bridge. “Radiation level is practically zero… at least at the moment. Decontamination protocols and further repairs have been initiated. Oh, and I’ve ordered in the ersatz crew for Impulse Engineering, as we’ve almost no more people left here.”

“Good job, Number One,” Kirk replied. “What about the child?”

Decker turned to the outlet of the access tube. There was no more steam coming out of it, only a trickle of black smoke. A moment later Irska appeared, stepping out into the corridor and removing her protective helm – a radiantly beautiful girl of fifteen or sixteen years, red-faced and bright-eyed with excitement… and completely unharmed.

“Irska seems to be all right,” the first officer said when he found his voice again, “but she definitely isn’t a child anymore.”

“it’s incredible, Jim!” McCoy added, while Xon was helping Irska out of the radiation suit, so that the doctor could examine her. “She wasn’t affected at all!”

“Incredible indeed,” Kirk replied slowly, with markedly less excitement in his voice. “We’ll have to discuss that aspect later, though. Mr. Decker, you’ll take over Engineering until Mr. Scott recovers. Have impulse engine coolers reactivated and give me enough power for normal travelling velocity. We’ll try to head towards Starbase 13 again. Kirk out.”

“Aye-aye, sir,” Decker replied crisply to the muted intercom unit; then he looked at McCoy. “Doctor, can you give me a shot to keep me awake for the next twelve hours? I promise to rest afterwards, but without Mr. Scott, we’ll need at least a full shift and a half for preliminary damage control.”

McCoy hesitated for a moment – he wasn’t a friend of using stims, no matter for what reason – but then he gave in. Decker was already dead on his feet; he wouldn’t be able to stay awake on his own for the next ten minutes, not for twelve hours.

“This one time,” he warned, before giving the first officer his shot.

“Believe me, Doctor, this is _not_ my idea of a good time,” Decker replied, rubbing the place of the shot tiredly; then he stepped to the wall intercom unit again. “Decker to all Engineering personnel: please report for duty. Repeat: all Engineering personnel report for duty. Repair teams, prepare for a Level Two emergency.”


	13. Interlude #2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lieutenant Boma’s only appearance was in “The Galileo Seven”. His background and his first name are entirely my creation. Lieutenant Marlena Moreau appeared in the episode “Mirror, Mirror”.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
INTERLUDE #2  
**  
Lieutenant Darhe’el Boma, the head astrophysicist of the _Enterprise_ , had returned from his trip to the Custodian Array just a few hours before the docking of the _Astral Queen_. That enabled him to watch through the enormous panorama window of the cafeteria on Administrations Deck as the great, snow white freighter with the long, gleaming container attached to its neck was swimming slowly, gracefully into the drydock.

“I’ll never grow tired of this sight,” he said to his table companion. “It’s so rare that aesthetic aspects would be taken into consideration by designing the new Starfleet instalments.”

Lieutenant Marlena Moreau, doctor of geochemistry, tilted her head – crowned with a large, plaited coronet of raven black hair – thoughtfully to the side and sipped from her cocktail. To be honest, her mind was still lingering on Mantilles.

“It’s said that the Deltans had interfered with the construction plans rather heavily,” she said absent-mindedly. “I don’t think you’re really interested in such details, though; at least not right now. Come on; tell me what you’ve found out there!”

The Mauritanian scientist sighed and dipped his face into the aromatic steam of his coffee for a moment.

“I don know _what_ I’ve found,” he admitted. “The Array is still sending new data without a break, but not even the supercomputer of the Starbase can correlate them. They’re completely… controversial, I’d say. One can’t even tell for certain whether the phenomenon consist of matter or of energy. There’s a good chance that it even might be in a constant transitional phase between the two.”

Moreau’s dark, exotic eyes mirrored interest. “I’d like to take a look at the data, if I may,” she said.

Boma shrugged. “Sure, why not? The entire scientific community of the Starbase is busily analysing the data. This has surely been the most exciting discovery in our field for the last decade or two. The data must be transferred to a relay station as soon as possible; just in case we shouldn’t survive a direct confrontation with the phenomenon, as it’s clearly coming our way.”

“I certainly hope that we will,” Moreau commented without the slightest sign of concern. “I intend to marry in the not-too-distant future, you know, and no cosmic phenomenon is gonna stand in my way. But if the situation is really so grave, I’m surprised that you aren’t taking part of the work.”

“They’ve got enough qualified people to manage without me,” Boma shrugged; then he gestured towards the PADD lying before him on the table. “Besides, it isn’t so as if I wouldn’t check on their work regularly. Right now, however, I’d like to see our future shipmates again.”

“So would I,” Moreau said. “How many have come with the _Astral Queen_?”

“Only three,” Boma said. “Lieutenant Palamas, our A&A officer, Lieutenant Arex, who’ll serve as chief navigator for Gamma Shift; and Alexander, of course.”

Moreau frowned for a moment, not recognising the name at once. “The little Platonian?” she guessed.

Boma nodded. “The same one. He’s been hired as a maintenance technician for the rec deck, I heard… I mean, he _will_ be hired, should the _Enterprise_ manage to get here in one piece, after all.”

“Why shouldn’t she?” Moreau asked in surprise.

Boma sighed. “The radiation levels read by the Array are so far off scale they can’t even be measured anymore. I’m not sure if the ship – if _any_ ship – could bear such energy bombardment, Marlena.”

For what seemed eternity, Moreau looked at him with those dark, byzantine eyes of hers.

“You’ve got someone on board, don’t you?” she then asked quietly. “Someone who means a great deal for you. _That’s_ why you chose to return to active duty, am I right?”

“If they can’t get through, _that_ wouldn’t matter anymore, would it?” Boma replied bitterly.


	14. Cryontha

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of the dialogue contains rephrased lines from the original script, meant for Phase II of TOS.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
CHAPTER 12 – CRYONTHA  
**  
Four days later, the _Enterprise_ and the alien cylinder were still staring at each other in the black, starry solitude of deep space. The new crisis prophesied by Xon hadn’t occurred yet, but everybody agreed that it was only a matter of time. Therefore Captain Kirk called for a crisis meeting – this time not in the briefing room but in Sickbay, so that Scott and his people, who were still undergoing treatment, could also participate - those who were conscious, that is. Only a skeleton crew remained on the bridge, with Uhura in the command chair and the unshakable Ensign Bernstein at the helm.

“If we just knew why the thing’s attacked us!” the badger-haired Lieutenant Leslie, who’d been promoted as head of Computer Diagnostics right before the launch of their current mission, complained. There was more annoyance towards the unknown in his voice than real concern, though. He was a veteran who’d served on board the _Enterprise_ during the previous five-year-mission, in various departments, and was not easily frightened.

“All efforts to establish communication with the cylinder have failed, so far,” Ensign Ga’qus added unhappily. “We’ve tried on every single frequency we could think of. We’ve even bombarded the thing with ultrasound waves, as crude a method as it might be. But we couldn’t achieve anything, aside from almost rendering _ourselves_ deaf,” she finished, rubbing her large, sensitive ears ruefully.

Glum silence followed her report. If _Tiburonian_ communication techniques failed, that could only mean that one couldn’t establish First Contact with the cylinder – or whatever dwelt inside it – through the usual channels.

McCoy scratched the nape of his neck thoughtfully.

“This might sound a little extravagant, but… everything began when we passed through that peculiar cloud of energy,” he reminded the others. “Would it be possible that there is a connection between the cloud, the cylinder _and_ Irska? Could you imagine that the cloud might be an intelligent entity?” he asked his colleague, Dr. Helen Noël.

The neuropsychologist shrugged. “This is a big universe, Leonard. _Everything_ is possible.”

“Besides, we’ve met several cloud-like entities during our previous five-year-mission,” Kirk added grimly. “They were all capable of interstellar travel just fine.”

“Aye, and neither of them was particularly friendly,” Scott commented from the tank full of green regeneration gel tiredly. He was buried in the stuff up to his ears and had even a gel mask covering his face. It wasn’t a pretty sight.

“True enough,” McCoy nodded. “But _if_ the cylinder is housing an intelligent cloud entity, and _if_ said entity has hostile intentions towards organic life in general, why didn’t it attack us while we were flying through it?”

“I’m not up to the challenge to understand the possible motivations of a cloud that travels through space with warp speed and most likely isn’t even sentient,” Kirk muttered. “Assuming, of course, that there is a connection between the cloud and the cylinder - which is by no means certain yet.”

“Perhaps it didn’t have a reason to attack us back then,” Colonel Tigh, whom Kirk had expressly invited to staff briefings since the beginning of the current crisis, in the hope to benefit from his decades-long military experience, commented. “Very few people attack other people without a reason; at least they usually _believe_ that they have a sound reason. Even the Cylons were convinced that their war to eliminate mankind as a whole would serve the perfect order of the universe.”

“What sort of reason could have a cloud that has apparently a highly developed technology to its disposal, to kill us?” McCoy asked with a frown.

“I don’t know,” Tigh replied calmly. “Perhaps we ought to ask the cylinder.”

“That’s what we’ve been doing all the time!” Ga’qus exclaimed.

Tigh shook his head thoughtfully. “No, Ensign, it’s not. We’ve been bombarding it with messages that it apparently doesn’t understand. Perhaps they don’t even register with the cylinder. If its technology is truly so alien that we can’t even begin to understand it, where is the guarantee that it would be compatible with ours, on any level?”

“Do you happen to have a suggestion?” Kirk asked impatiently.

Tigh nodded. “If the cloud is indeed sentient, it ought to have some sort of thoughts. In that case, the cylinder has to contain certain traces of those thoughts. There are telepaths aboard this ship – fairly powerful ones, at that. Why don’t they try to establish contact on a non-technological level?”

“It is not that simple, Colonel,” Xon said. “Vulcans are touch-telepaths. How am I supposed to touch the cylinder?”

“I didn’t mean you,” Tigh replied. “There is a person on board who most likely already does have a connection to the cloud... _or_ to the cylinder… or _both_. Perhaps you should try to learn something through that person.”

“What are you talking about?” Kirk demanded. “Who on my ship is supposed to have to do _anything_ with that… that thing?”

“Someone whose existence has probably been initiated by the cloud,” Dr. Noël, who started to understand what Tigh was hinting at, said. “The child of Lieutenant Ilia.”

McCoy raised a hand in protest. “That child is fourteen days old; or, if we take the rate of her individual development into consideration, fourteen or fifteen years, tops. She can’t have any objective knowledge about the cloud… _or_ articulate it.”

“If Irska’s conception has been induced by the cloud, of which I’m personally convinced, she _must_ have some kind of knowledge about her origins,” Tigh pointed out. “Perhaps buried, not on a conscious level, yet a Vulcan ought to be capable of reaching that buried knowledge and find some answers.”

“I _might_ be capable of doing so,” Xon replied seriously. “However, you may not be aware of the fact, Colonel, that a forced mind-meld is considered on Vulcan a crime even worse than physical rape. There are serious repercussions for that sort of crime; at least in theory. There has not been a single recorded case in the last two thousand standard years.”

“But Mr. Spock repeatedly performed mind-melds with alien beings,” Kirk said in surprise.

Xon raised an eyebrow. “Did he? How unethical of him. No wonder he found it necessary to cleanse himself from his past in the Desert of Gol.“

The comment was met with stunned silence. Everyone from the veteran stuff respected and admired Spock, whom they considered the epitome of lofty Vulcan ideals, even though his mother had originated from Earth. The thought that Vulcans might see him differently, and that Xon’s opinion might mirror the general Vulcan opinion about Spock, was quite… unsettling for them. Not the least because they had always thought they’d understand Vulcans through Spock - until now. Now they had to realise that they hadn’t even necessarily understood _Spock_ ; and that the more conservative circles on Vulcan might not even consider a Terran hybrid as their equal.

Not that this fact would have lessened their respect and admiration for Spock who, after all, had saved the ship and the crew several times through those supposedly unethical mind-melds. Accordingly, half a dozen senior officers were giving the clueless young Vulcan decidedly hostile looks.

“I believe Mr. Spock’s motivation isn’t the matter of discussion right now,” Colonel Tigh intervened, steering the discussion back to the original topic. “Tell me, Lieutenant Xon: would you perform the mind-meld is Irska agreed to participate?”

Xon didn’t answer at once. The thought to share his mind with a complete stranger, and one of uncertain origins at that, was against everything he’d been trained for. He had to admit, though, that this time it might be necessary… not that it would make him any less uncomfortable.

“Considering the potential danger we are currently threatened by… yes, I would be willing,” he finally said. “I may be able to discover things in her subconscious to explain her connection to the alien vessel.”

“Excellent,” Tigh said with a shrug. “We only have to ask Irska, then.”

Dr. Noël rose. “She must be in Ilia’s quarters,” she said. “Perhaps it would be best to bring her here… in case there might be complications with the meld.”

“You can use my office then,” McCoy offered to the Vulcan. “I know it’s a very private affair; you’d be undisturbed there.”

Xon nodded his thanks stiffly, but – despite his expressionless mien – one could clearly see that he didn’t like the whole idea at all. His rigid carriage, the way his lips were pressed into a thin line, the way his eyes were fixated on a corner of Sickbay where was absolutely nothing to see, spoke volumes.

“And who’s gonna ask the girl?” McCoy inquired sceptically.

“I’ll do it,” Scott offered in that tired voice of his.

The others looked at him in surprise, but Decker shrugged.

“You’ve probably got the best chance of us all,” he agreed.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Dr. Noël left to bring the girl, and everyone waited in tense silence until she returned with Irska. Ilia came with them, clutching the hand of her daughter protectively. As McCoy had mentioned before, the speed with which Irska was growing had slowed down considerably during the last few days, as if the current period of her life had come to its end. She looked about fifteen or sixteen right now.

Releasing her mother’s hand, she hurried straight to the gel-tank in which Scott was resting. With infinite care, she took the chief engineer’s hand – patched up with several layers of syntheskin – between her narrow palms. She was still wearing the headband Scott had made for her.

“How are you doing, Mr. Scott?” she asked. Her voice was warm and friendly but had already lost its high, child-like pitch.

“Better,” the battered Scotsman replied. “As ya can see, Dr. McCoy has patched me up again; he’s very good at that. But in the end, it was _you_ who saved us all. Wouldya help us again, lass?”

“I’d do _anything_ for you,” Irska replied with such disarming honesty that Scott became beet red with embarrassment; still half a child or not, she _was_ stunningly beautiful. “What shall I repair now?”

Despite being in a great deal of pain, the chief engineer laughed. “Nothin’ this time. What we need is information, lass. We _must_ know where that bloody cylinder has come from, pardon my phrasin’; why it has attacked us and what it still may be plannin’ against us.”

“How could I know?” Irska asked unhappily. It clearly distressed her to disappoint her fatherly friend. “I haven’t got any idea!”

Scott patted her hand in a fatherly manner. “We believe ya do, sweetheart. Ya do have the answers, deep within ya, where ya cannae reach ‘em… not yet. And when ya’ve grown enough to understand, it may be too late for us all.”

“Perhaps Mr. Xon can help,” Tigh suggested.

Irska glanced through her tears at the Vulcan, who looked back at her openly and seriously.

“Vulcans know a method called the mind-meld,” he explained. “We can unite our thoughts with another person and so search for answers deep within that the person herself might not find alone. I cannot guarantee that you indeed __have__ the answers. But I would like to try – if you allowed me.”

Irska looked from the Vulcan at Scott, then at the dark, intently focused face of Colonel Tigh… then at the Vulcan again.

“Is it gonna hurt?” she asked hesitantly.

“Of course _not_ ,” Xon replied, choosing to keep his own discomfort well hidden from the girl; it wouldn’t have helped the case, had Irska known how much he was dreading the meld. “And in exchange I will show you how the Vulcan silverbirds, also called the wind-sailors, dance in the thin air of my home planet.”

Whether it was that promise that convinced Irska to make up her mind, or her desire to help, it would be hard to tell. In any case, she looked at her mother... and smiled mischievously.

“I think I’d like to join minds with Mr. Xon, Mother,” she said. “Wouldn’t it be funny if we taught him how to cry?”

Ilia rolled her eyes. “Very funny, darling; but that _isn’t_ the point of this exercise,” she said. But she couldn’t suppress a smile, and that made Kirk a little nervous. Deltans were known for their peculiar sense of humour, and suddenly he was afraid that Xon would get more than he’d bargained for.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
“I hope everything will work out,” M’Benga muttered as Xon and Irska retreated into McCoy’s office to prepare themselves for the meld. “We haven’t got a clue how much Irska has inherited from her mother’s strong telepathic abilities. By the ancestors, I’m not even sure that Vulcan and Deltan telepathy are compatible at all! It has _never_ been tried before. Should the neuro-chemicals in Xon’s mesofrontal cortex get off-balance, we’ll be facing a serious problem.”

“Could someone kindly translate for me, please?” Kirk rolled his eyes. “I don’t speak medical jargon.”

“The mesofrontal cortex is the seat of the Vulcan psycho-suppression system,” McCoy explained. “To make it easier for you to understand: it’s what enables them to suppress their emotions. Should the neuro-chemical balance be disturbed, Vulcans lose their iron self-discipline and run amok.”

“Is that what happens when they get into the mating heat?” Kirk asked, memories of a crazed Spock at his own, failed wedding ceremony coming back to him with unsettling clarity.

McCoy nodded. “Exactly. And since they aren’t used to face their suppressed emotions, such patients usually go stark, raving mad within hours… _if_ they survive the shock in the first place.”

“They don’t die from _pon farr_ , though; not usually,” Kirk pointed out.

McCoy nodded again. “True. But the _pon farr_ is a natural sequence of their biological cycle. They’re prepared for it, and they have found certain ways to channel it, millennia ago. Also, their bodies build up strength during the seven-year-break to deal with the madness when it comes. Should it come unexpected and hit them unprepared-for, though…” he trailed off and shook his head ruefully.

“It isn’t just the concern about their privacy why Vulcans are so hesitant to perform a mind-meld with alien species,” M’Benga added. “Such an experiment could easily cost them their sanity… or their lives.”

And he glared accusingly at Colonel Tigh, who’d come up with the idea in the first place and more or less blackmailed Xon into cooperation.

Tigh shrugged. “It wasn’t my intention to harm Lieutenant Xon, doctor; but if we don’t find a way to come to an understanding with the cylinder or its hypothetical inhabitants, his life won’t be safe, either; no more than that of the rest of us,” he said.

Which was very true again, of course – an uncomfortable truth no-one could really argue with. So they remained in unhappy silence, waiting for Xon to do what he could in order to find at least _some_ answers.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
The Vulcan, in the meantime, had Irska sitting in a chair and pulled up a second one for himself, before turning to Ilia who was still clutching her daughter’s hand.

“Let her go, please,” he requested softly, “and do not interfere. You would only endanger us both.”

After a moment of hesitation, Ilia obeyed. Sitting down opposite Irska, Xon cautiously reached out and touched the girl’s face at the appropriate spots to accomplish the link.

“My mind to your mind,” he murmured the ancient Vulcan mantra. “My thoughts to your thoughts…”

Ilia watched them intently and was a little frightened when she saw the shock on Xon’s usually so impassive face. But after a moment, the features of the Vulcan smoothed out again and rearranged themselves into an expression of almost transcendental beatitude.

“Love…”he murmured, and his voice seemed to come faintly, from a great distance. “life… death… compassion… fear… body… pain… _cryontha_ … learn…” he trailed off. Then he shuddered, took a deep breath, and said in a strangely changed voice, if someone else would be speaking through him, urgently and with great emphasis. “Understand _cryontha_ … End peril…”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
The unexpected whistle of the intercom tore everyone from their concentration rather abruptly.

“Bridge to Captain Kirk and Mr. Xon,” Uhura’s tense voice, the one she usually reserved for upcoming crises, said.

“Kirk here,” the captain answered. “What is it, Uhura?”

“Sir, the alien cylinder has generated an energy field of some sort… and it’s expanding in our direction,” Uhura reported. “I’ve contacted Security, but Mr. Chekov can’t tell me what kind of energy it is, either.”

“The expanding energy field is has begun to discharge emissions, _Keptin_ ,” Chekov added from his office on Deck B. “Possible effects can’t be estimated just yet, but I’ve got a really bad feeling about this, sir.”

He wasn’t the only one.

“Go to red alert, Mr. Chekov,” Kirk ordered, “and come up to the bridge; I may have need of your skills there. Battle stations! Engineering, initiate Warp engines and prepare for emergency Warp!”

“Sir,” Scott intervened tiredly, “Ya know we cannae outrun the bloody thing, don’t ya?”

“I know; but sitting here and waiting for the next move of the cylinder is no solution, either, is it?” Kirk retorted. “Well, I must go to the bridge. When Xon’s done with the girl, let them both follow me there.”

With that, he was in the turbolift cabin already. Lieutenant Garrovick, who had represented Security during the briefing, could barely catch up with him. Tigh, moving in on his trail, had to wait for the other ‘lift to arrive.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Uhura welcomed them with alarming news.

“Captain, I’ve called Lieutenant Park to the bridge,” she nodded in the direction of the Tellarite radiation biologist, sitting at Science Station One, while vacating the command chair for Kirk. “She’s the one who’s been analysing the energy readings of both the cloud and the cylinder, since our first encounter with the phenomenon, so I thought she might have some useful insight.

Kirk nodded. “Good thinking, Commander,” he then turned to the Russian who’d just arrived and sat down at his weapon/defence station, waving Ensign Lane away. “Mr. Chekov, damage control?”

Chekov switched on his damage control monitor and studied the screen with a frown. This time, the entire superstructure of the Enterprise was blinking on and off rather just one small area. The code letters: HL-SPRTR MOL INTGY appeared… and the flash warning: 12 HOURS TO CRITICAL.

Uhura took back her position at the communications console and put the images transmitted by the front sensor array to the main viewer. Then she divided the image field to add the pictures from the heck- and side sensor rows as well. All three image fields showed the same thing: the alien cylinder emitting a filmy magenta energy net that was swirling slowly as it enveloped the Enterprise. The mysteriously glimmering energy field was a beautiful sight; it was hard to believe that it would mean them any harm, yet their previous experiences with the alien vessel warned them that it might be so.

“Sir,” the Tellarite said, “As you can see, the cylinder has extended its energy field around us. It’s completely enveloping us, from all sides, and is breaking down the molecular integrity of our hull.”

“The ship will be pulverized!” Uhura added, alarmed.

“What about deflector shields?” Kirk asked.

“By the speed the energy field is crumbling them down, they’re gonna fail in little more than two hours, _Keptin_ ,” Chekov replied. “Once they’ve collapsed, the ship will be destroyed in another twelve hours.”

“In twelve hours, sixteen minutes and twenty-four point four, one, six seconds, to be accurate,” a visibly exhausted Xon added, emerging from the turbolift in Irska’s company.

Kirk ignored the very… _Vulcan_ comment.

“Have you learned anything useful?” he asked instead.

Xon shook his head and gestured Park to remain at her station while lowering himself gingerly into the next best empty chair. It was a bit shocking to see a supposedly indestructible Vulcan so battered.

“I was confronted with a maelstrom of thoughts and emotions so alien to me that I found myself unable to even identify them,” he answered tiredly. “I am afraid Irska does not have any answers just yet… or else they are hidden in such a deep layer of her unconscious mind that I was simply unable to reach them.”

“Is there no way to reach them at all?” Kirk asked.

Xon shook his head again. “No, Captain. For that, we would need an experienced healer; and even so, invading someone’s mind to such depth would be life threatening, for both parts.”

“So you haven’t found anything at all?” Kirk was very disappointed.

“On the contrary, Captain,” Xon replied. “I am just not certain that it would help us in any way. There were two recurring thoughts of outstanding clarity, repeated like some sort of mantra… or a code: _Understand cryontha… End peril_ … But that was all I could figure out of the chaos.”

“Better than nothing,” Kirk turned to the girl. “Do _you_ have any idea what those sentences might mean?”

Irska shook her head wordlessly. Kirk frowned.

“But you agree with Mr. Xon’s interpretation, don’t you?” he insisted. “That the peril _would_ end if we understood _cryontha_ … whatever it is.”

The girl nodded without hesitation.

“Do you know what peril is?” Kirk asked.

“Of course!” Irska replied, clearly surprised by the question. “ _We_ are in peril, right now.”

Kirk nodded. “That we are. And _cryontha_? You know what that is, too, don’t you?”

But Irska just shook her head slowly, negatively. She looked puzzled… perhaps even a little frightened.

“I’m sorry, Captain,” she answered. “I really don’t know.”

Kirk exchanged helpless looks with his science officer. The Vulcan shrugged, clearly at a loss of what else they might try.

“Well,” Kirk said with a resigned sigh, “at least we’ve tried. Thanks for your efforts, Irska; and yours, Mr. Xon.”

Irska beamed at Uhura.

“You were right, Commander,” she declared. “Captain Kirk really doesn’t mean to say nasty things. He’s just under a lot of pressure.”

The look Kirk gave Uhura could have frozen Vulcan over.

Fortunately for her, Nahar Singh, who was supervising the control station of Engineering, swivelled his chair to his commanding officer.

“Captain,” he said, “I’m afraid Lieutenant Park’s estimate was a little too optimistic. Several key systems of the ship are nearing their tolerance limits… including the phaser banks and life support. If nothing happens, the complete molecular breakdown of our hull will only take another nine hours.”


	15. Escape

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of the dialogue contains rephrased lines from the original script, meant for Phase II of TOS.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
** CHAPTER 13 – ESCAPE  
  
Colonel Tigh arrived on the bridge just in time to hear Singh’s announcement. He just shook his head in resignation and found himself an empty chair. Xon, having recovered from the strain the mind-meld had put on his system – well, mostly – clambered onto his feet and stood behind Park to have a look at her – actually _his_ – control screen - and frowned.

“Captain, the added strain of any abrupt maneuver might cause the ship to break up,” he said.

As if affirming his words, an automated alarm started to sound in the background, followed by an equally automated, ship-wide announcement.

**Computer override. Emergency life support system activated. Imperative, repeat imperative. Hull breakdown anticipated within nine hours. Repeat…**

“Shut it off!” Kirk snapped in helpless annoyance. Uhura switched a button and the announcement stopped. Kirk turned to Tigh. “What would you do in my place?” 

He hated asking outsiders for advice, but Tigh had been a warrior and fought a war of life and death all his life. It was only sound to consult him in tactical matters. 

“I would fight, as long as I still can,” the colonel replied without hesitation. “It’s already too late to try to escape.” 

“The engines won’t be able to bear the strain of an emergency Warp anyway,” Nahar Singh affirmed. “At least we still have phasers at the moment. I can’t tell for how long yet, though.” 

“That’s fine with me,” Kirk nodded grimly and activated the communications unit built into the armrest of his command chair. “Kirk to Phaser Control.” 

“Phaser Control, Martine-Teller here,” an almost inordinately perky female voice answered. 

“Transfer all phaser controls to Mr. Chekov’s station,” Kirk ordered. “If we only have one shot or two, we’ll better do it directly from here.” 

“Controls transferred to Weapons and Defence Station on main bridge,” the phaser technician replied. “Good luck, Captain.” 

“Thank you, Angela,” Kirk looked at Chekov, who was already working on his console like a madman. “Arm phasers, Mr. Chekov.” 

“Phasers armed and locked on target, sir,” the Russian reported, before Kirk could have finished his sentence. 

Kirk nodded. Chekov always worked best under pressure; when he didn’t have the time to brood and second-guess himself. His instincts and reflexes were excellent – if only his self-confidence could catch up with them… 

“Fire phasers at full capacity, Mr. Chekov.” 

“Firing full phasers, aye, _Keptin_.” 

Chekov hit the fire controls. The seriously battered starship shuddered from heck to bow as the powerful phaser cannons unloaded their deadly charge. Artificial gravity fell out for a second or two, then it reinstated itself, causing everyone to land quite hard in their seats again. 

At the same time, Irska collapsed, screaming in pain. Ilia ran to her daughter and hugged the child tightly. 

“Stop it!” she cried out in distress. “Please, Captain, stop it!” 

All eyes – except from Lieutenant Garrovick, who was watching the Weapons/Defence control screen, turned and focused on the Deltan and her daughter, as Ilia tried to comfort a sobbing Irska. 

“Phasers fully discharged, sir,” Garrovick reported from Weapons/Defence. “Direct hit.” 

Xon, who had been engrossed into his hooded viewer – Park had vacated Science Station One for him just moments earlier – looked up. 

“Captain, despite the pain to the child, the alien vessel shows no damage whatever,” he reported, seemingly undisturbed by the events. “Its energy field is still intact.” 

“We must have done _something_ to it for the child to be hurt,” Kirk chewed on his thumbnail for a moment; then he looked at Garrovick. “Lieutenant, activate Tactical. Reroute all reserve energy to Chekov’s station and lock on to target. Mr. Chekov, as soon as you’ve got full power, fire again.” 

“Reserve energy rerouted, Captain,” Garrovick replied almost synchronously. 

Chekov hesitated for just a moment – then he hit the fire controls. 

Irska screamed again, her face wet with tears of immense pain. 

“Stop it!” Ilia screeched. 

She lunged at Garrovick, threw him aside with surprising ease (especially considering the fact that he was a trained security officer and she half his size) and began hitting buttons randomly on the Tactical console. It started sparkling and shorting out before the security guard on duty on the bridge – an Andorian female and a slender, pointy-eared Rigelian male – could grab her and pull her away from it. She continued to struggle against them, but it was pointless. They both belonged to species with great physical strength and restrained her, even though with some difficulty. 

“Mr. Chekov,” Kirk said grimly, “have a security team take them,” he indicated at Ilia and Irska, “to their quarters and confine them.” 

Chekov nodded and pushed the intercom button on his console. “Security team B to the bridge,” he said; then, to Garrovick. “Damage report, Lieutenant.” 

“Phaser and photon torpedo controls are both out, sir,” Garrovick replied grimly, “and there is considerable damage to the advanced tactical targeting system.” 

“Go to auxiliary,” Kirk ordered. “Mr. Chekov, use your own console to reroute power and lock on to target. We’d managed well enough before the new targeting systems were installed – it’ll be just as in old times.” 

“Sir, the second battery did no more damage than the first,” Xon pointed out. “We are only hurting the child. I suggest we direct our energies towards finding the meaning of _cryontha_. Irska’s subconscious indicated that the peril to the ship would end when she understood the meaning of that word.” 

“And how many people should we allow to be hurt or to die until she figures out?” Kirk asked grimly. “We simply can’t just sit here and wait for that to happen. Mr. Chekov, you’ve got your orders.” 

“Aye, _Keptin_ ,” Chekov sighed unhappily. “Vell, Lieutenant, svitch to auxiliary pover and let me…” 

“No!” Ilia’s scream was shrill, inhuman – it froze everyone’s blood for a second. With unbelievable strength, she tore herself free of the iron grips of the two security guards, grabbed the Andorian’s phaser and shot into the Tactical console, without aiming, without checking the weapon’s setting first. 

The chalk white Garrovick could barely duck from the deadly energy beam in the last moment. 

Security team B, led by the stone-faced Lieutenant Dickerson, chose this very moment to march onto the bridge, phasers aimed and ready. For a moment, it seemed that there would be a bloody confrontation between Ilia and the security officers and perhaps it would indeed have come to that, if not for Xon. But the Vulcan rose from his seat unhurriedly, sneaked up behind Ilia with the stealth of a hunting cat, and used the infamous Vulcan nerve pinch to subdue her without further violence. Kirk released a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. 

“Lieutenant Dickerson,” he said, “confine Lieutenant Ilia and her daughter to quarters. I want maximum security protocols initiated. Neither of them – _including_ Doctor Adzhin-Dall – is to leave those rooms until we’ll have the time to court-martial Lieutenant Ilia.” 

“Under the given circumstances, that is rather unlikely,” Tigh commented dryly, while the security team picked up Ilia and escorted Irska off the bridge. “Perhaps if you had the library compute search for the meaning of _cryontha_ , it would turn out useful.” 

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Jedda Adzhin-Dall was fairly shocked when the security team delivered an unconscious Ilia and a sobbing Irska to their quarters. Deltans might not need physical touch to establish telepathic contact, but that didn’t mean they would ghost around in each other’s minds all the time. As a telepathic species, they knew to value privacy. Therefore Jedda didn’t have the slightest idea what had just happened on the bridge. 

“Lieutenant Ilia was being… unreasonable,” Dickerson explained. “She demolished the Tactical console on the bridge and very nearly killed Lieutenant Garrovick in the process. I’m sorry, Doctor Adzhin-Dall, but you’re all confined to quarters until further orders from Captain Kirk.” 

Jedda took the limp body of Ilia from him and laid her onto the floor cushions. Irska kneeled beside her unconscious mother, took Ilia’s hand in hers and stroked it while watching her face intently. 

“What happened to her?” Jedda asked. 

“Vulcan nerve pinch,” Dickerson replied succinctly. “She’ll come by in no time. There’ll be guards posted outside your door, Doctor, with orders to shoot at sight if any of you tries to leave. Try to persuade Lieutenant Ilia to stay put; it would give her bonus points at the court-martial.” 

With that, he turned and left, leaving the deeply shocked Deltan alone with his family. Jedda shook his head in bewilderment; then he joined mother and daughter on the floor. He knew he’d have his work cut out for him if he wanted to help them deal with the emotional trauma. Fortunately, he was a very well-balanced individual as Deltans go. 

As Dickerson had foretold, Ilia did come to soon thereafter and looked up at her daughter, smiling. 

“Are you all right, darling?” she asked. 

Irska nodded wordlessly. Ilia pushed herself into sitting position and opened her arms both to the child and to her partner. She and Jedda cradled Irska between them to provide emotional support. 

“No need to be frightened,” she said. “You’ve only experienced pain.” 

“Why must anyone feel pain?” Irska asked, her confusion very apparent. 

Ilia smiled at her, albeit a little sadly. 

“Pain is part of life,” she explained. “Sometimes it is how we understand – that is why some of our people are so intent on embracing it fully. We try to experience every aspect of life in its full intensity.” 

“But I’m not of your people,” Irska pointed out. “At first I believed I’d be like you. Later I believed I’d be like the humans – but I am not. I know that now. I’m no Deltan, nor am I human. I’m like nobody else on this ship. I am… I’m _different_. Completely different.” 

Jedda nodded. “That’s certainly true, dearest, but know this: to whatever species you may belong, you need to learn what joy and pain are, because these things are the same in the entire universe… in _every_ universe. Without knowing them intimately, you won’t understand what it means to be responsible for others – and to accept that responsibility.” 

“Why should I feel responsible for those who aren’t like me?” Irska asked in bewilderment. 

“Because you influence their lives by your very presence among them,” Jedda explained, “and in exchange, they influence _your_ life. Nobody can live for themselves alone. That’s the great order of things in the multiverse.” 

“And what is _my_ responsibility on this ship?” Irska asked. “I’ve already saved them twice – is that not enough?” 

Jedda shook his head. “One doesn’t fulfil one’s vocation by performing certain isolated acts… nor are we out of peril yet – on the contrary. You have been sent here with a certain purpose, and until you’ve fulfilled that purpose, we’ll be all in deadly peril.” 

“I see,” Irska said slowly, thoughtfully. “Can you… can you make me understand what _cryontha_ is?” 

Jedda shook his head again. “I’m afraid I cannot. Only you can do it. Mr. Xon is fairly certain that the answer is inside your mind. You’ll have to find it.” 

“And if I don’t, everyone will die?” Irska asked, frightened. 

“Don’t use your mind to feel guilt,” Ilia said softly. “Direct your mind to discover what _cryontha_ is.” 

For a moment, Irska was very still and quiet, as if listening to something only she could hear. 

“I don’t have much time,” she declared abruptly. 

“Then we have to hurry,” Ilia glanced at her partner. “Leave us alone, beloved. We have no other choice than to enter Dreamland.” 

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Xon finished his meditation and quickly, accurately folded the black ceremonial robe to a small quarter, so that the gold and dark violet _kolinahr_ symbols embroidered on the breast came above. It was something he’d done uncounted times before, his hands moving on their own, allowing his thoughts to wander. 

His colleagues on the bridge had reacted a little baffled when he’d asked for permission to retreat to his quarters and meditate for an hour… in the middle of a crisis. Even Captain Kirk had made a strange face. Fortunately, due to his long friendship with Mr. Spock, at least the captain understood that meditation wasn’t a self-serving practice for Vulcans. In truth, it helped them ordering their thoughts and absorbing information at a more profound level. 

Facing such a complex problem, an hour wasn’t nearly enough, of course, but Xon knew he was needed on the bridge. Besides, based on the very few empiric data he actually _did_ have at his disposal, even a week wouldn’t have been enough to form a well-grounded theory. So he had to return to the bridge with what little he’d come up with. 

Upon his return, he found everything as he’d left them. The _Enterprise_ was still enmeshed in the magenta energy field emanating from the alien cylinder. His colleagues had a harried look about them. And Captain Kirk was getting increasingly impatient. 

“Mr. Chekov, how much time?” he was asking when Xon emerged from the turbolift. 

“Seven hours, forty-tvo minutes, sir,” the Russian answered unhappily. 

Kirk punched the intercom button. “Metallurgy lab, Lieutenant Haber, status report!” 

“Whatever the energy field is, sir, it’s operating on a sub-atomic level,” Dirk Haber, the notorious Casanova of the science department, replied, his voice unusually serious. “I don’t see much hope of finding an effective catalysing agent. But we’ll keep trying, of course.” 

“Of course. Do it,” King changed channels. “Physics lab, Lieutenant Takawa, report.” 

“We’ve tried reverse gravity and battery of magnetic field generators so far,” the accented voice of the elderly Japanese scientist answered. “No effect, sir.” 

“I see,” Kirk looked at Uhura. “Commander, have you found something – _anything_ – about this _cryontha_?” 

Uhura shook her head apologetically. “I’m sorry, Captain, but the closest thing to _cryontha_ that the computer banks contain is _Cryantha_ – which is a species of animal on Porgath Five.” 

“Have you tried mathematical languages?” Kirk was getting really desperate. 

Uhura nodded. “Yes, sir… with similar effects.” 

“Well, then we’re at the end of our line,” Kirk sighed. “All attempts to reverse the molecular breakdown process of the hull have failed. So, unless Mr. Xon has had a revelation during the last hour…” 

“I have none, sir,” Xon replied blankly. “I have, however, been reviewing in meditation the child’s thoughts as I knew them when our minds were joined…” 

“The point,” Mr. Xon,” Kirk said with forced patience. “The _point_. Do you have any theory at all?” 

“I do, Captain. However, I must warn you: as I did not have sufficient empiric data at my disposal, the probability of my theory is maximally ninety-two point two four per cent.” 

Despite the seriousness of their situation, a few bridge officers began to giggle, which confused Xon to no end. He couldn’t understand what might be so amusing in the fact that he was, with a probability of almost eight per cent, in error. 

“I will keep that in mind,” Kirk promised, way too seriously for him to be true. “Please continue.” 

“As you wish, Captain,” Xon took a moment to order his thoughts. “Well, I had the distinct impression that each of the calamities that befell the ship was designed to teach the child something about life and death… and emotions that I could not comprehend. There was a sensation of incompleteness, as though she was still evolving and these events were necessary steps in the process.” 

“ _Cryontha_ , Mr. Xon,” Kirk said through gritted teeth. “ _What is cryontha_?” 

“I do not know _what_ it is, Captain,” Xon replied. “But whatever it may be, it is the key to the next stage of her development. Perhaps if I tried another mind-meld I would learn more, now that I know what to look for.” 

“You’d better hurry up then, Meester Xon,” Chekov said darkly. “Ve only have five and a half hours left. The breakdown process has just sped up a leettle bit,” he added, seeing the surprised frowns on the faces of his fellow officers. 

“Five hours, thirty-four minutes, six point eight two seconds,” Xon corrected with a quick glance at the damage control screen; then he tilted his head to the side with an expression of decidedly false innocence on his face. “But I promise you to do my best.” 

“Let’s not waste any more time, then,” Kirk said. “Uhura, you have the bridge. We’ll be in Lieutenant Ilia’s quarters. Mr. Xon, you with me!“ 

They practically jumped into the turbolift cabin while Uhura relocated into the command chair, Lieutenant Garrovick looked at her in concern. 

“I know it’s not my place to make suggestions, Commander, but… perhaps you should order Doctor M’Benga to Lieutenant Ilia’s quarters, now that you have the authority to do so,” he said. “Just in case this mind-meld doesn’t turn out as it ought to.” 

Uhura nodded. “A very good idea, Lieutenant. Assuming we survive this crisis, we might need the little Vulcan yet.“ 

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Outside Ilia’s door Kirk and Xon found the six-foot-three Mohammed Jahma and the deceivingly fragile-looking Ensign Keiko Tamura on duty… the latter potentially far more dangerous than the former. Chekov wasn’t taking any risks this time. 

“Come in with us,” Kirk instructed them, “but stay in the foyer. We don’t want to provoke anyone; still, be prepared for everything. The Lieutenant has already proved how… unpredictable she can be.” 

The guards nodded, and – upon entering the foyer – stayed behind as ordered. Kirk marched straight on to Ilia’s living room, but found only Jedda there, sitting on a cushion and drinking something that – based on the scent of it – must have had a considerable percentage of alcohol. Deltans did nothing by halves. 

“They are in the sleeping area,” he told the uninvited visitors. “Ei’lia has sent me out. It is a very private matter between mother and child.” 

He seemed ready to use violence to protect said privacy, and Kirk hesitated for a moment, no longer fooled by the Deltan’s – by _any_ Deltan’s – sleek elegance. Ilia had taught him a lesson he wouldn’t easily forget. 

Once again, Xon came to his aid. 

“Doctor Adzhin-Dall,” the science officer said gravely, “as a Vulcan, I understand the need for privacy more than anyone else on this ship, and under normal circumstances I would never attempt to invade that which is supposed to be respected. However, the current circumstances are less than normal, as you know; and it is imperative that I learn what Irska may find out.” 

Jedda stared at him unblinkingly, as if he’d tried to read the Vulcan’s thoughts. He was a very strong telepath, Xon realized, and could have torn the Vulcan’s shields to shreds within seconds, causing potentially irreversible damage to the unprotected Vulcan mind in the process. Yet he was holding back, only demanding assurance that whatever Xon might see, he would treat with respect. 

Xon gave him that reassurance, and the Deltan withdrew from his mind, nodding towards the sleeping area with a strangely graceless movement of his bald head. The recent events must have taken their toll even on him. 

Kirk and Xon entered the Deltans’ bedroom, which was furnished with the same simple elegance as the rest of Ilia’s quarters. Xon reacted quickly to the sight offered them: he extended a hand, pulling the captain up short. It was a very un-Vulcan thing to do, but he couldn’t allow Kirk to cause any unwanted damage due to his impulsive nature. Terrans were simply not good at handling such situations, due to their almost complete lack of experience with telepathy… and there could be no doubt that something of the kind was going on between Ilia and Irska. 

Mother and child were sitting cross-legged on the floor, opposite each other. They appeared to be in some kind of trance-like state. Their arms were extended outwards, clasping each other’s hands, fingers intertwined, roughly at waist level. Their eyes were locked with an intensity that bordered on frightening. 

“What are they doing?” Kirk asked in awe. 

“They are ‘sharing sight’ – a time-honoured Deltan method to help a child grounding herself,” Xon answered in a low voice. “We should not interrupt them; that could be dangerous.” 

“What about the mind-meld?” Kirk asked with a frown. 

“This may serve the same function,” Xon replied. “It is a deep meditation. Irska may find the…” 

He was interrupted by Ilia’s desperate scream. “Noooooo!” 

The Deltan’s face lost its serene expression abruptly. She broke the posture to clasp Irska tightly to her, still unaware of the presence of Kirk and Xon. Irska struggled to push away from her mother but Ilia clutched her tightly. 

“Mother, let me experience what you did!” Irska insisted, forcing Ilia back to the sight-sharing position. 

“Incredible,” Kirk murmured. “She must have superhuman strength to force Ilia like that – we’ve all seen what _she’s_ capable of physically. Ilia, what did you see?” 

But the question came too late. Mother and daughter were already in a world of their own again… presumably parsecs away. 

“They cannot hear you, Captain,” Xon said, stating the obvious as only a Vulcan could. 

Kirk was close to screaming in frustration. _Really_ close. He hated it when things got out of his control. He was the captain, after all. The _Captain_! 

“Use telepathy,” he ordered. “Get into their minds – I don’t care how. Inject your theory into their line of thought. Dammit, Lieutenant, _do_ something!” 

Contrary to common belief, Vulcans did have well-developed survival instincts; otherwise they couldn’t have survived the violent past of their planet as a species. Said instincts were now warning Xon that this was _not_ the right time to voice his moral objections. So he just nodded, kneeled beside Irska and reached out to establish contact. 

When he touched the clasped hands of Ilia and Irska, a heavy jolt seemed to shake his entire body, and he lost contact immediately. Gathering his strength and now prepared for the unpleasant effect, he tried it again, wincing in pain and promptly suppressing his undignified reaction. Finally, he settled in… and became as entranced as Ilia and her child were. 

The wall intercom beeped. 

“Captain, the radiation level is peaking within the energy field,” Nahar Singh’s worried voice reported. 

Before Kirk could have answered, Xon and Ilia were thrown violently off Irska, as though repelled by some incredible power. They were both knocked to the floor, unconscious, while Irska continued sitting on her cushion in that trance-like state. 

Aghast, Kirk ran to the wall intercom. “Kirk to Sickbay!” he shouted. “Medical emergency in Lieutenant Ilia's quarters! Send me Doctor McCoy and a med team, now!” 

“Not necessary, Jim; M’Benga is already on his way,” the distant voice of his chief medical officer, heavy with Southern drawl answered. “Uhura has just called a moment ago.” 

The tall, somewhat hunched African doctor was already coming in, opening his medkit on his way – and _not_ wasting his time with either explanations or social niceties. 

“He’s in shock,” he said before his knees could actually hit the floor beside the Vulcan. Then he glanced at the guards who were staring at him helplessly. “I need all blankets you can find in these quarters, and I need them _now_!” 

Keiko Tamura and Mohammed Jahma ran into the living room, picking up the wondrously soft Deltan blankets from everywhere. Jedda hurried into the walk-in closet to get them some more. In the meantime M’Benga gave the Vulcan a series of fairly exotic shots. 

“This ought to help, soon,” he said, clearly relieved. “All right, wrap him in the blankets, tightly like in a cocoon. The most important thing is now to keep him warm. I’ll take a look at Lieutenant Ilia.” 

He didn’t even bother to stand up, just slid on his knees over to Ilia, who was lying in the opposite corner of the room like some broken porcelain doll. He checked her vitals and nodded in satisfaction. 

“All right, that’s not as bad as it looks,” he declared. “I need some water, though.” 

“I’ll get you some, doctor.” 

Since the guards and Jedda were still busy with wrapping Xon into a warming cocoon, Kirk went to the bathroom himself. Unfortunately, M’Benga had forgotten to tell him how much water was needed; so he randomly grabbed a globular vessel, made of unbreakable Deltan porcelain, thinner than an eggshell, filled it and brought it back to the bedroom. 

“Will that be enough, doctor?” he asked. 

“Yes, thanks,” M’Benga took a sealed plastic bag from the medkit, tore it open with his teeth and dipped its contains – something dry and grass-like – into the water. Then he spread the substance, now unpleasantly resembling of rotten moss, over Ilia’s forehead where she had a bleeding cut from having his against the wall. 

“This will stop the bleeding and seal the wound at the same time,” he explained. 

“I thought wounds are being treated with a protoplaser and syntheskin in these days,” Kirk said in surprise. 

The doctor nodded. “Usually, they are,” he agreed. “But Deltans develop an allergic reaction to syntheskin very quickly. It’s simply not worth to have to take antiallergica for the rest of one’s life because of some minor injury. For such cases, every hospital and sickbay keeps a good stock of Deltan herbal remedies. It takes a little longer than with a protoplaser, true, but Lieutenant Ilia will heal without scaring,” he rose and took a look around. “And now I’d like to examine Irska. Where is she?” 

“She is…” Kirk looked around, too, but couldn’t see her anymore. “Dammit, she’s gone! Yeoman Jahma, why have you allowed the girl to leave?” 

“Sir, we haven’t seen her leaving,” Ensign Tamura replied for her colleague. “She was definitely here when we started wrapping Lieutenant Xon in these blankets.” 

“Well, she definitely _isn’t_ here anymore,” Kirk commented dryly; then he went back to the wall intercom and called the bridge. 

“Lieutenant Ilia and Lieutenant Xon are injured, Commander,” he informed Uhura, “and Irska has escaped. Chekov should call a general security alert. All available personnel are to look for the girl.” 

"Understood,” Uhura replied. “Are you coming back to the bridge, sir?” 

“No,” the captain replied. “Since I’m already here, I’ll help with the search. Contact me via intercom if something new happens. Kirk out.” 


	16. Reunions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The personnel officer is the same nameless character who gave testimony in “Court-Martial”. I gave her the name of the actress who played her.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
CHAPTER 14 – REUNIONS  
**  
The news about Irska’s escape found Lieutenant Commander Kyle, the transporter chief of the _Enterprise_ , in Engineering, where he was filling in for Ensign Omara. The young engineer was still in a critical condition, and Kyle was a fairly good engineer himself – had even worked under Mr. Scott as an assistant engineer for more than a year during the _Enterprise_ ’s previous five-year-mission. He came down to Engineering as soon as he learned about the multiple injures and the need for qualified help.

“I have the unpleasant feeling that the girl will try to leave the ship via transporter,” he said to Lieutenant Masters, who was working on building up an additional forcefield around the dilithium storage chambers.

“Who’s on duty in the main transporter room?” Masters asked, carefully navigating her still barely showing body – for a woman five months pregnant she was still fairly slender – between the consoles.

“Rand,” Kyle answered, “which is lucky for us, I’d say. She’s a mother of two herself; she could deal with children – and she isn’t easily intimidated.”

“Perhaps, but Irska isn’t a child anymore… _if_ she ever was one,” Masters reminded him. “I’d take the transporters off-line if I were you.”

“Good idea,” the transporter chief nodded in appreciation and stepped to the next wall intercom unit. “Transporter room, this is Kyle. Rand, transfer all transporter energy back to Engineering. It’s possible that Irska would try to beam off the _Enterprise_.”

“Too late for that, Chief,” Rand’s voice was surprisingly calm and balanced. “She’s already here.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Rand’s announcement already found Kirk on Deck G. He was only a few sectors away from the transporter room, and still fit enough to cross that distance in less than three minutes. When he stumbled into the anteroom of the transporter, the first thing he glimpsed was Rand’s back, as she was standing behind her controls, showing no sign of distress whatsoever.

Janice Rand had started her career at the age of sixteen (although her official file had said eighteen, due to the time differences between Starfleet Standard and her remote home planet), as the Captain’s Yeoman. Without Uhura’s support, she’d probably still be offering PADDs for signing. But the communications officer had decided to take the girl under her wings, and since Uhura had always had excellent contacts, after two years of duty at Ship’s Services Rand had been offered the chance to qualify herself.

She’d used her chance well, despite her supposedly turbulent private life. Now when their lives depended on whether or not she’d be able to keep her calm, Kirk had to realize that Uhura’s trust in Rand’s potential hadn’t been unfounded.

“I’m very sorry, Irska,” the assistant transporter chief was saying, just when Kirk entered, “but I have my orders. You know what orders are, don’t you?”

“Of course I do!” Irska’s irritated answer came from some distance; she must have been standing near the transporter platform although Rand’s body was shielding her from Kirk’s vision. “I’m not a baby anymore!”

“I’ve come to realize that,” Rand commented dryly. “Well, if you know what orders are, you can also understand that I may not beam anyone out – not without the express orders of Captain Kirk.”

“I could force you,” Irska said, and there was an edge of threat in her voice, for the first time since she’d come aboard.

However, as Kyle had foreseen, Rand was not easily intimidated.

“That wouldn’t do you much good, I’m afraid,” she replied, her tone almost friendly. “You _could_ kill me, of course, or knock me out, and you could try to operate the transporter yourself. But you’d never reach the platform _before_ the transporter sequence begins. The beam would tear you to pieces… assuming you’d get as far as the platform before the automated security forcefields come up.”

“We can negotiate,” Kirk walked around the transporter operator’s console and stepped closer to Irska. “Here am I – what do you want?”

“Captain,” the strange creature in a girl’s disguise said gravely, “now I understand it all. I know what _cryontha_ is – and I know that I have to go.”

“Could you be a little more specific?” Kirk asked sarcastically.

Irska shook her head, still adorned with the jewelled, headband, Mr. Scott’s handiwork.

“ _Cryontha_ means ‘unnecessary shell’, Captain,” was all she said. “And I must leave before it’s too late."

“Too late for _what_?” Kirk demanded. “Don’t talk in riddles to me!”

“I have no time for explanations,” Irska said; then she added with emphasis. “In twenty minutes, it _will_ be too late!”

“She is telling the truth, Captain. We must let her go.”

Kirk whirled around to look for the source of that barely recognizable voice… just in time to see an obviously recovered Xon rush into the room and send Rand to the land of dreams with a somewhat messily executed nerve pinch before anyone had time to react. Recognizing an unexpected ally when she saw one, Irska ran for the transporter platform, while Xon leaped to the controls. A moment later she was gone.

“Forgive me, Captain,” Xon said hoarsely, “there was no time to explain…” and he promptly collapsed next to Rand, losing consciousness. Kirk stared at him open-mouthedly, wondering what the hell might have happened to him.

“Engineering to Captain Kirk!” Decker’s excited voice came from the intercom.

Kirk shook off his mild shock and stepped to the wall unit tiredly. “Talk to me, Number One!”

“Sir, the energy field is leaving the _Enterprise_ and is returning to the cylinder,” Decker informed him. “And sir… it’s incredible…! The cylinder dissolves into a sphere of white light and leaves!” his voice became somewhat muddled as he turned away from the comm unit to speak to someone else on a different channel. “Make sure that you record everything, Park! This is the most unbelievable example for matter-energy transformation ever mentioned in the scientific databases of the Federation.”

“ _Keptin_ ,” Chekov chimed in from the bridge, “the alien vessel is gone. Hull status has returned to normal.”

“Thank you, Mr. Chekov,” Kirk replied, no less baffled than his senior officers. “Secure from red alert.”

“Securing from red alert, aye,” Chekov responded automatically; then, after a pause, he added in bewilderment. “Ve’ve escaped vith the proverbial black eye again. But sir… vhat's really happened to her?”

“I’m sure, Mr. Chekov, that our science officer will offer a plausible answer for that,” Kirk said; then, casting a look at the unconscious Vulcan behind the transporter operator’s console, he dryly added. “As soon as Doctor M’Benga has patched him up again.”

“It will certainly be a _fascinating_ explanation, Captain,” Decker laughed; then, assuming a more official tone, he asked. “Your orders, sir?”

“Go up to the bridge and take over,” Kirk ordered. “Set course to Starbase 13, with the highest speed still safe for our engines. We all wish to absorb Mr. Xon’s doubtlessly most informative explanation in one piece, after all.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
For an explanation they had to wait for a few days, though. Firstly, M’Benga had to recover from the effects of the Vulcan neck pinch his determined patient had used on him to get out of Ilia’s quarters. Xon had repeatedly apologized since then, but the doctor was still sulking and wouldn’t miss any chance to point out that Vulcans were the worst patients in the know galaxy – a remark that made McCoy snicker every single time.

For the same reason, Janice Rand had to be temporarily relieved from her duties, too. Xon, not being in full control of his abilities, happened to apply a little too much pressure to her neck muscles and nerves. Fortunately, no permanent damage had been done, and Xon was so apologetic about the whole issue that she soon forgave him.

The Vulcan himself needed to recover from the bioelectronic shock suffered when interrupting the shared sight of Ilia and her daughter; not to mention that the repeated exposure to Deltan telepathy had burdened him a great deal. He emphasized, of course, that he needed no medical assistance, as the Vulcan self-healing trance would be more than sufficient. However, M’Benga was not in the mood for such squabbles… even though he _had_ declared himself more than ready to _wake_ Xon from his trance, which would have included slapping the Vulcan a few times _really_ hard. So when Xon didn’t seem willing to listen, he used his doctor’s prerogatives and simply ordered his belligerent patient to spend the next two days in Sickbay.

And then there was the issue with Ilia. After several consultations with Lieutenant M’Botabwe, Kirk let himself be persuaded _not_ to curt-martial her, after all, since she’d clearly been under the mental influence of an unknown alien entity. Besides, it was a known fact that right after giving birth, Deltan maternal instincts seriously clouded a person’s judgement – which was the reason why Deltan mothers usually went into seclusion for the first year after the birth of their children. Ilia had accepted the assignment aboard the _Enterprise_ in the good faith that she wouldn’t become fertile for at least another Deltan year and a half, so she couldn’t be fully blamed for the recent events.

There had been, however, a disciplinary hearing, and she’d gotten a reprimand in her file, just to respect the letter of the regulations - but that was all. No-one really blamed her, ands he had the general sympathy of the crew, since everyone could see what the loss of her child – even though Irska hadn’t really been _hers_ – had done to her.

It was obvious that she’d need therapy to overcome that loss. Dr. Noël did her best to help, but she’d had very little xenopsychology at medical school, and there was not much that she could actually do. Realizing that, she asked Uhura’s help, who’d studied a while on 114 Delta V in her youth, and they hoped that – with Jedda’s cooperation – they’d manage to start the healing process, eventually.

To general relief, Ensign Omara had come out of the critical phase; and Mr. Scott, too, was healing nicely. McCoy had become cautiously optimistic that he might be able to release at least the chief engineer from the gel tank by the time they’d reached Starbase 13.

“Perhaps it would be more practical if you prepared a résumé for the internal network of the _Enterprise_ ,” Kirk suggested to the Vulcan, who was working doggedly on his mobile terminal, even in Sickbay, to finish the preliminary analysis on the recent events. “You can spare the details for a lengthy lecture on Starbase 13 – _if_ you can contain your scientific eagerness long enough, that is.”

“Actually, that would be welcome, Captain,” Xon replied, without as much as looking up from his work. “A delay would give me the chance to consult Lieutenant Boma and get myself the… _the bigger picture_ , as humans call it.”

“I’m afraid Boma won’t jump around with happiness over that chance,” McCoy commented dryly.

 _That_ made Xon look up from his terminal and give him a surprised look.

“I mean,” the chief medical officer explained as gently as possible, “it isn’t a secret that Starfleet Sciences has lured Boma away from his seat in Princeton with the promise to assign him as science officer of the _Enterprise_. However, Admiral Nogura has torn all his hopes asunder by giving _you_ the job. I’m sure he’s _not_ happy about that.”

“I cannot be made responsible for the outcome of the events, though,” Xon said innocently. “I have not even applied for this post.”

“That doesn’t change the outcome, though,” Yeoman Zara Jamal, coming in for her routine check, commented.

Xon shrugged. “Admiral Nogura will have had his reasons.”

“He had _one_ reason,” Zara Jamal replied, “and that is called Commander Sonak.”

“How can you know that?” McCoy wondered. “The Old Man isn’t really known to have his reasons announced from the rooftops, as a rule.”

“I heard it from Professor Boma,” Zara Jamal explained. “He used to teach advanced mathematics at the University of Fés for two years; I was enrolled into that particular course. Since then, we’ve kept regular contact.”

“In that case, perhaps you can help me to dissolve his… unfavourable attitude towards me,” Xon suggested with full Vulcan innocence. “Logic dictates that a good working atmosphere is preferable to a tension-filled one.”

Zara Jamal gave him a strange look, somewhere between pity and mild annoyance.

“What makes you think that I _don_ ’t share his unfavourable attitude?” she asked pointedly and followed Christine Chapel to the examination room, without waiting for an answer.

“Don’t let it get to you, son,” McCoy said to the baffled young Vulcan comfortingly, after Kirk had left them alone. “Some humans can have fairly peculiar ideas about loyalty.”

“Humans,” Xon replied gravely, “are far more peculiar than I have expected.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
The science department was busy like a beehive during the few days until they reached Starbase 13 (metaphor courtesy of Dr. Mulhall from Astrobiology). The correlation of the data collected about the cloud was synchronized by Lieutenant Park. The chubby little Tellarite had nearly reached the stage of spontaneous combustion; she managed to work sixteen to eighteen hours a day, driven by the professional ambition to finish the job before their arrival – an obviously impossible goal. In the end M’Benga, who was afraid she might suffer a stroke from sheer excitement, threatened to put her into stasis if she didn’t sleep at least six hours a day.

“Concerning our actual mission, we’re already well behind the deadline,” Willard Decker summarized their situation on the next staff meeting for senior officers. “Even if we didn’t stop at Starbase 13 at all, which we can’t do, we’d never keep our original schedule.”

“Well, in that case it wouldn’t matter if we set off even later,” McCoy stated. “Jim, I insist that during our stay at the Starbase the entire crew receive a complete physical. We’ve done our best, but our capacity is limited. On Starbase 13, on the other hand, they have six hundred doctors, working with a medical contingent of two thousand technicians and nurses. I want every possible test made, for every imaginable after-effect. Considering the ungodly amount of radiation we had to endure in the last few days, it’s a miracle that we’re still alive.”

Kirk nodded. “Agreed. Uhura, send my detailed report to Starfleet Command and ask for new orders as well as a new schedule concerning the Antar problem.”

“Aye-aye, sir,” Uhura tapped a few commands into her PADD with a well-manicured finger.

“Captain,” Scott had just left the gel tank that morning and was accordingly weak and battered, but his mind worked as well as always, “I wanna complete system check. After all, we got nearly pulverized, and half of my crew is still lyin' in the intensive care area. Starbase 13 has an excellent drydock, with a Centaurian chief engineer – they’ll do a good job with my wee bairns.”

“Good idea, Scotty. See into it. Chief,” Kirk turned to the personnel officer, “You’ll see that our additional crewmembers come on board in time, won’t you?”

“Of course, Captain.” If the question had insulted Nancy Wong’s professional pride, she showed no sign of it. “Their quarters have been prepared since our take-off.”

“Excellent,” Kirk said. “Mr. Decker, what is our estimated time of arrival at Starbase 13?”

“With current speed about two days and eighteen hours, sir,” his first officer replied, “and I agree with Mr. Scott that we ought to stick to that velocity until the engines could be thoroughly checked.”

“All right,” sometimes it almost depressed Kirk that the young Decker knew the technical parameters of the refitted _Enterprise_ so much better than he, but he tried to conceal his envy. If for no other reason, then because he saw the late Matt Decker’s son, who stood closer to him than his own nephew, as some kind of baby brother. “Let’s put everyone on light duty, Number One – and set up a roster for some shore leave, for the entire crew. It seems we’re gonna spend a few days on Starbase 13, so we might as well have some fun.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
The recent events had kept the personnel of Starbase 13 in a constant state of excitement. Traffic was still fairly rare there, on the border of the great unknown, so the arrival of the _Astral Queen_ had already counted as a major event, and Captain Jon Daily was not above enjoying his sudden popularity. He might be married to a Vulcan, but he wasn’t one, himself.

The majority of the Starbase’s engineering personnel originated from one of the Centaurian homeworlds. Considering the fact that Daily had studied a few semesters on the technical faculty of their _Delthara University_ , they saw him as a honorary landsman and practically carried him around on hands, determined to show him every nook and canny of the brand new Starbase.

The arrival of the _Enterprise_ caused that glory to fade a little, of course. Being free of the typical Terran hero worship, however, the interest of the Centaurians was focussed on the scientific discovery of the _Enterprise_ , not on her captain or crew; therefore Daily was still handed from one department to another. He could barely accept all the invitations.

The scientific community of the base – consisting of hundreds of astronomers, mathematicians, astrophysicists and geophysicists, mostly – had been busily analyzing the data transferred by the Custodian Array. Even though the subspace telescopes had been re-adjusted to watch unexplored space again, the data would provide them with work for months, if not years.

New and exciting theories were born (and fell apart to ash within moments) about how the mysterious cloud had managed to transfer matter to energy and back again, without the help of any visible technology. The transfer itself wasn’t anything new – that was the principle on which Federation transporter technology worked, after all – but doing it without a sophisticated technical apparatus at will was something nobody had even heard of before.

“This is a level of science completely new for us,” Zinaida Chitirih-Ra-Pays explained on a spontaneous private conference, held in a cafeteria of the habitat deck. “Once we’ve correlated the data, it will still take _years_ before we manage to create a working mathematical model, at least in the form of equations.”

The young Deltan mathematician belonged to the same marriage group as Ilia and Jedda and had originally come to Starbase 13 to meet them. Although her work wasn’t widely known – mostly due to the fact that it couldn’t be translated from the original High Deltan – she was considered as one of the most promising representatives of her generation. The same was true for Jedda, by the way.

“There is no natural phenomenon that could not be explained by the way of logical analysis,” T’Pan - an equally very young Vulcan astronomer - declared. She’d been assigned to Starbase 13 by the Science Academy of her home planet, with the mission to provide exact data about the reactions of a Wolf-Ryatt star, situated two sectors away in unexplored space. “It is only a matter of time and systematic work,” she paused; then, a little hesitantly, she admitted. “Even though the logic coordinating the actions of the energy cloud is still outside my understanding at the moment.”

“That might originate from the fact that the cloud is with a high probability factor a sentient lifeform,” Jedda answered with a deadly serious mien, mimicking the stilted Vulcan style of conversation so well that several humans had to bite the inside of their cheek really hard to keep themselves from screaming.

Naturally, T’Pan didn’t understand their reaction. For a Vulcan scientist, she appeared fairly confused. Of course, she was very young and hadn’t interacted much with outworldlers yet.

“Can you verify that statement?” she turned instinctively to her fellow Vulcan for support.

Xon nodded. “With a probability of ninety-nine point one six per cent I am the only one who can,” he said. “I have briefly touched the conscious of that ‘cloud’, through the shared sight of Lieutenant Ilia and her child.”

“How about explaining us everything from the beginning?” Commander Stone suggested. “I’ve watched the lectures of Dr. Adzhin-Dall and Lieutenant Boma through the internal network, but a clarifying summary would be very helpful.”

“Try to avoid the technobabble, Lieutenant, and use monosyllables, if possible,” McCoy advised with endearing wickedness.

Xon placed his glass onto the table. His thin, pale face seemed a lot _greener_ than usual, and at first Uhura thought he was about to get sick… until she realized that it was only an affect of the strong Romulan ale. Like all freighter captains, Jon Daily had his reliable sources to… _organize_ prohibited goods, and ‘Hannibal’ Stone had decided to turn a blind eye at it, due to the importance of the most recent discovery. Blushing looked really interesting on someone with a copper-based haemoglobin; even the tips of Xon’s ears were glowing green.

“I do not believe I would be capable of describing a phenomenon like this with monosyllables,” he said gravely. “Nonetheless, I shall endeavour to use potentially simple expressions, if that is what you meant, Doctor.”

“Brilliantly guessed!” Leonard McCoy nodded in a magnanimous manner and allowed himself another glass of the rare beverage.

“Very well,” Xon said, “I shall… _give it a shot_ , as I believe is said on Terra. I assume, Commodore, you are already familiar with the progress of the events themselves?”

Stone nodded. “Yes. I know – more or less – _what_ happened. I would be interested in the _why_ , though.”

“Yes, the reason was our actual problem,” Xon agreed, and we had not understood… _I had_ not understood it, up to the moment when I made the attempt to join the shared sight between Lieutenant Ilia and Irska.”

“You’ve paid for that attempt dearly,” Jedda commented. “You could have permanently damaged your brain.”

The Vulcan nodded. “That is correct. But Irska’s mind had reached its full potential by that moment, and so I was able to understand the situation… as far as it was possible at all, for any of us. This life-form exists in a completely alien way; almost like the Medusans.”

He paused and took another cautious sup from his drink. Closing his eyes for a moment, he enjoyed as the pleasant heat of the strong ale warmed his throat.

“Thousands of centuries ago, Irska’s race existed in a humanoid form,” he then continued, choosing his words thoughtfully. “The central star of their system went supernova, destroying all its planets. The race, however, survived in the form of pure energy.”

“Which means, the queer cloud that we’ve crossed on our way was actually the entire population,” Scott added. “Through their violent metamorphosis, these people had developed the ability to change matter into energy and back at will. I’m convinced that the cylinder followin’ and almost destroyin’ us was but a group of these beings… they simply transformed. An incredibly technology… simply incredible…”

Xon nodded. “That it is… but it has a catch, as you humans would say. Despite their metamorphosis as a species, they can only procreate in the old-fashioned way: through conception and birth. Just as humans pass through all evolutionary stages from single cell to human being within the mother’s womb, it was necessary for Irska to experience all stages of the race’s prior development. For that, however, she needed a host – a _humanoid_ host, as her ancestors had once been humanoid beings. I believe Irska’s final appearance can give us an idea what their actual form must have been like.”

“They must have been very beautiful, then,” Decker said in an almost reverent manner. 

Xon have him his best condescending eyebrow. “Beauty, Mr. Decker, is in the eye of the beholder.”

“Are you suggesting that all this time Irska hadn’t really been _born_?” Kirk asked with a frown. The idea seemed a bit far-fetched to him.

Xon tilted his head to the side in that seemingly innocent manner the senior staff of the _Enterprise_ was beginning to recognize as false.

“I believe Lieutenant Ilia would have a different opinion about that,” he said.

Ilia, however, nodded in agreement. “That is correct, Captain. Until, she had experienced all the joys and pains of living in a physical body, and was ready to shed the ‘unnecessary shell' it represented to her, she was still in an embryonic stage for her race. I was her first womb. The _Enterprise_ was her second.”

“So, _cryontha_ means…” Kirk trailed off, still trying to understand it all.

“As Irska said, it means ‘unnecessary shell’,” Xon replied. “Her physical body that she did not need any longer, as soon as her personal evolution was finished.”

“I see,” Kirk looked at Ilia, feeling a little uncomfortable. “I wish, Lieutenant, that her life with you could have been longer and less troubled… or that we could have made it a bit easier for you… for both of you.”

“Thank you, Captain,” Ilia replied with thinly-veiled irony. “I appreciate your sentiment, but I could hardly expect you to make improvements on a miracle. Besides,” she added with a wistful smile, “we are still young. We’ll get the chance to have children again.”

“And this time the old-fashioned way,” Jedda added, laughing.


	17. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that’s it. After more than twenty years, the story – admittedly a somewhat different one from the original – is finally available in English. Thanks to those who’ve read and especially those generous few who’ve made the effort to comment. 
> 
> The series will be continued with “Episode 03: The Sins of the Mothers", eventually. In fact, the story has been written for ages, too, but only one-third of it is already translated into English. I'm currently working on the rest.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
EPILOGUE  
**  
Xon consciously shielded his mind from the general laughter and the following, embarrassingly stereotypical teasing. He could see T’Pan doing the same. She was born on Vulcan itself, not on one of the more free-spirited scientific colonies; such trivialities were even more embarrassing and unpleasant for her than they were for him.

“Where is Lieutenant Boma?” he asked – in Standard, as if not to wake any ungrounded yet very human suspicions that they were speaking about someone present. “I intended to go to his lecture; unfortunately, he timed it simultaneously with mine.”

He didn’t mention the fact that the entire science department of the _Enterprise_ – with the notable exception of Lieutenant Park, who was new and had seen no reason to take sides based on past loyalties – had demonstratively gone to Boma’s lecture. That fact was of no importance; besides, Vulcans didn’t have sensitive egos that could have been bruised easily. And he already knew that his older, more experienced colleagues rejected him as one man - even though the reason was beyond his understanding.

T’Pan looked around, then she nodded in the direction of the opposite end of the cafeteria. There, in front of the huge panorama window, a slender, dark-skinned man was sitting, wearing an ankle-length, widely-cut indigo blue robe. He must have been in his early forties; the lean elegance of his thin, dark face – affirmed by its proud, detached expression – spoke of some Tuareg blood in his veins.

He was not alone. Sitting at his table Xon recognized with surprise Mohammed Jahma in a pink _boubou_ , the traditional wear of the Hausa. There was also Zara Jamal, in typical Moroccan clothes, including a long, black veil hiding most of her face… and Dr. M’Benga. The doctor, too, was wearing a wide, ankle-length, sand-coloured African robe, and a richly embroidered rectangular cap on his head.

Xon murmured an apology to his table company (not that anyone but T’Pan would pay him much attention), and then, still a little hesitantly, he rose and went over to the other table.

“Lieutenant Boma?” he asked politely.

The man in the indigo blue robe glanced up. His coffee brown eyes searched the Vulcan’s face coldly. “Do I know you?”

“I do not believe so,” Xon replied, “but I think it is high time to change that. I am Lieutenant junior grade Xon.”

Again, he hesitated for a moment; then he strengthened his mental shields and slowly extended his hand in the traditional human gesture of greeting.

“I should have known,” the human’s dark, intelligent face mirrored slight surprise. “However, it’s uncharacteristic for a Vulcan to initiate any physical contact, I’m told.”

For a moment it even seemed as if he wouldn’t accept the proffered hand; but in the end, he changed his mind. The grip of his dry, bony fingers was short but surprisingly firm. His voice, too, was dry and rough as it could often be heard among desert-dwellers.

“Darhe’el Boma,” he gave his full name. “I’m an astrophysicist; but you probably already know that.”

“That is not entirely correct,” Xon replied. “According to my sources, you have two advanced degrees in astrophysics and one in bipolar mathematics; you used to hold the Astrophysics seat in Princeton for four years and held guest lectures at various universities, including the Makropyrios.”

“That’s right,” the human nodded. “Apparently, those credits were still not enough to qualify me as the science officer of a starship. Perhaps I should grow pointy ears,” he added wryly. “Doc, you could do something in that direction, couldn’t you?”

M’Benga shook his friend. “Sorry, my friend. I’m no plastic surgeon.”

“If that it any comfort for you, Admiral Nogura did not want _me_ in that function, either,” Xon said calmly. “As you probably know, he wanted Commander Sonak. They only drafted me because Sonak was not willing to leave the _Intrepid_. I am well aware of the fact that my experiences, both in the scientific and in the social sense, do not qualify me for the post of the science officer; not yet. But I am willing to learn - to learn how I can work with humans or other alien beings. However, I cannot do this without your help.”

“ _My_ help?” Boma echoed, clearly baffled. “You really expect me to help you?”

“It would be only logical,” Xon explained with disarming Vulcan honesty. “The section leaders of my – of _our_ department reject me. Which, in the light of general human nature, is more or less understandable. They all respect _you_ , though; and on this mission, it is of outstanding importance that the science department shall work smoothly. I am not the least interested in posts or titles, Lieutenant. However, my personal honour demands that I provide good work. But I cannot do that alone; I depend on you and on all our co-workers.”

Boma gave M’Benga a somewhat bewildered glance. The doctor shrugged.

“The ball is in your court, Darhe’el; whether you accept or not, it’s up to you. The question is: how much are _you_ interested in posts and titles? Or is your research more important for you?”

“Well, I admit that not getting the position promised to me bothers me a great deal,” Boma replied with brutal honesty that would have made a Vulcan proud. “And I’m not that eager to work under Vulcan rule again. Spock was enough for a lifetime.”

“I am _not_ Spock,” Xon said quietly and with emphasis. “I’m not even _like_ him.”

“One bonus point for you,” the human replied dryly. “Well, I guess it’s not your fault that the Old Man is obsessed with Vulcans. Do you like tea?”

“Actually, I do,” Xon lowered himself onto the offered chair carefully, as if afraid that any sudden movement might break the fragile truce between them. “But without sugar, please.”

~The End~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Soledad Cartwright @ Budapest, 3 November 1996.  
>  Translation and complete rewrite finished on 1 January 2010  
> **


End file.
